Ocean of Ashes
by Optimum Ace
Summary: In the wake of the World War, both Axis and Allies recognize their true enemy. As the leader of the newly formed Global Postwar Coalition's Joint Fleet, the Commander is tasked with leading the multinational fleet to counter the Siren threat. As war rages across land, sea, and sky, the Commander struggles against politics and prejudice to build a force capable of striking back.
1. Blood In The Water

**Author Note:** This chapter is dedicated to Commander Edwin R. Wilkinson and Commander Donald MacDonald, whose exploits as the successive commanders of the real _USS O'Bannon_ have been incorporated into this story.

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_Shadows draw circles_

_Enraptured by promises_

_A maddening scent_

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**Chapter 1:** Blood in the Water

Concern twinkled in a pair of violet eyes like sunlight on an alpine violet dotted with morning dew. Matchless, an M-class destroyer in Her Majesty's Royal Navy, struggled to stand still as anxiety tingled beneath every inch of her skin. Posted up at the conference room's door, the purple-haired destroyer girl watched the meeting between her Commander and the Admiralty Board. While she never liked to be more than a few steps away from the Commander's side, it would have been inappropriate for her to hover at the table. Taut wires of tension crisscrossed the massive oak meeting table. Each exchange pulled them tighter and tighter; Matchless expected something snap at any moment.

"Admiral, the Board appreciates the need for a fresh perspective and you have proven yourself more than capable as the commander of this joint operation," said one of the Board members, a portly fellow in an Eagle Union uniform with a clean-shaven face, bald head, and rounded cheeks. Matchless remembered him from previous meetings because he tended to do most of the talking for the Admiralty Board. Something about his face struck her as patronizing, and yet jealous at the same time. "But this transfer you requested is far too… _unconventional_ for the Board's comfort."

Though all of the ship girls referred to their leader as "Commander", he held the official rank of Rear Admiral within the Global Postwar Coalition. During her first week as the Commander's secretary she referred to him as such in all of her reports, unaware that it acted only as a moniker and not his official rank. It still threw Matchless off whenever someone addressed the Commander as "Admiral."

The other members of the board muttered vague agreements with the portly admiral in the Eagle Union uniform. Matchless swallowed the dry lump in her throat and reached up to adjust her beret, unable to keep herself from fidgeting. Uniforms from every nation on _both_ sides of the World War colored the GPC Admiralty Board. Most of the time they squabbled amongst themselves about everything from patrol schedules to how often the water cooler should be refilled. Their quiet unanimity against the Commander's request made Matchless squirm.

The Commander leaned forward in his seat and folded his hands on the table. In a room full of men with graying hair and wrinkled faces, the Commander's dark brown hair and smooth skin stood out as the only exception. Matchless recalled a conversation they shared back in his office after the previous meeting with the Admiralty Board. The Commander explained to Matchless that his relative youth made the Board members uncomfortable. They considered any receptiveness to his new ideas to be an admission of weakness, thus opening themselves up to being replaced by someone they perceived as a hotshot young gun.

"I understand the Board's hesitation to consider the candidate I put forward," said the Commander. If he felt any discomfort beneath the doubtful stares of the Admiralty Board members he didn't show it. The clean, pressed collar of his Eagle Union officer's dress jacket betrayed no signs of perspiration. Most of the Board members, on the other hand, appeared as if they just finished up with a morning jog. Matchless recognized their situation for what it was: a rough spot between a rock and a hard place. If they allowed the Commander his requisition and things went poorly, it would fall on _their _heads. However, if they denied the Commander's recommendations, he might lack the necessary resources to continue mounting an effective war effort against the growing Siren threat.

Getting to his feet, the Commander stepped around his chair and folded his hands at the small of his back. Bright light poured in through the windows overlooking the port, and when he turned,his bright green eyes shone like opals. The pause, Matchless knew, did not indicate hesitation. Rather, she knew that the Commander liked to set his _own_ pace and let the Board members sweat it out while he collected his thoughts. Like a shark, he circled the table with a slow, pacing gait. No doubt he, too, noticed their sweat-dampened shirt collars.

"Commander Dorian Reese is one of the youngest officers ever to command a warship," the Commander said, breaking the stifling silence. "It is reasonable to conclude that a young officer lacks the experience required to adequately fill the role we require. However, under his command, the USS O'Bannon 02-Production earned seventeen Battle Stars. That would make his vessel tied for third most decorated warship in the war."

"Yet his service record speaks to a man both impulsive and careless," said one of the Royal Navy admirals, interrupting the Commander before he could continue. The Commander took the response in stride, never so much as batting an eye.

"Thank you, Admiral Stafford, for bringing me to my next point," the Commander said, continuing to pace around the table. "Commander Resse's service record is rife with resourcefulness, strategic intelligence, and most of all, fearlessness in the face of hopeless odds."

The Commander turned his head towards the table and regarded the Board members one at a time, gauging their reaction to his claims. Several of them exchanged uncertain glances, and their loss of balance spurred the Commander onward.

"On the 02-O'Bannon's approach to Guadalcanal, Reese's crew spotted a surfaced enemy submarine. Rather than flee and avoid the risk of the sub diving to hunt them, Reese ordered his crew to open fire on the target in order to pin down the sub and keep it from engaging the lightly defended convoy scheduled to make its way through," the Commander said.

Some of the Board members appeared as if they wanted to interject, but the Commander continued without allowing them the opportunity.

"Shortly thereafter, the 02-O'Bannon detected sixteen enemy torpedo bombers on the way to intercept transport ships resupplying allied troops. Reese placed his ship between the bombers and transports, and with the help of anti-aircraft fire from Resse's production model O'Bannon, eleven of the torpedo bombers were shot down. The transports were saved," the Commander said, and pressed on. He suspected that so long as he kept up his momentum they would not interrupt.

"In a battle over the Ironbottom Sound, Reese and the 02-O'Bannon, as part of a small task force, engaged an enemy fleet superior both in number and firepower. Battle reports indicate that the 02-O'Bannon steamed towards the enemy flagship at full speed, guns blazing, until it drew so close to the enemy that their cannons could not depress low enough to fire on them. Incidentally, this saved the 02-O'Bannon from being among those allied ships lost during the battle. Reese's actions are directly responsible for the sinking of the enemy flagship and the routing of the enemy fleet. This saved Henderson Airfield, which allowed their aviators to stop enemy reinforcements landing the next day."

The Commander stopped pacing at the chair he abandoned and rolled it away from the table. Leaning in, he planted both hands flat on the surface and continued to list the accolades of Commander Reese. He met each admiral's eyes as he swept the Board with his fierce green gaze.

"At the Battle of Kula Gulf, Reese led three cruisers and three other destroyers to victory against an enemy assault of ten destroyers. A week later, at the Battle of Kolombangara, the 02-O'Bannon fought alongside the same force to defeat an enemy cruiser, five destroyers, and four destroyer escorts-going so far as to sink the enemy cruiser before routing the other ships."

Meeting the eyes of an admiral dressed in a Sakura Empire uniform, the Commander held the older man's gaze as he presented his final argument.

"Then, of course, there is the Battle of Vella Lavella," the Commander said. He watched the imperial admiral's eyes harden, a storm gathering behind them. "Admiral Atsui, would you like to shed some light on the events of the battle? You can attest to the actions of the 02-O'Bannon better than anyone having been there to witness them for yourself."

The Sakura admiral, thrown off by the sudden shift of attention to him, frowned hard at the Commander. Several of the Eagle Union and Royal Navy admirals shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Though all the nations involved in the World War came together in its aftermath, the subject of various victories and defeats still caused friction between them. Atsui sighed, frustrated at having been put on the spot. Leaning forward, he folded his hands on the tabletop.

"Two dozen small gunboats, eight production model destroyers, and two non-production destroyers formed a task force to relieve imperial troops on the island," Atsui said, surprising several of the admirals at the table. "As we neared the island and prepared to mobilize, we detected three Eagle Union destroyers on the horizon. Rather than fleeing or maintaining their distance, the three destroyers charged at full steam towards us." The imperial admiral peeled his eyes away from the Commander and swiveled in his chair to look out the window. "We failed to take them as seriously as we should have."

Another deep sigh escaped Atsui. He closed his eyes and related the events of the battle to the rest of the Admiralty Board.

"They set upon us so quickly that we lost Yūgumo in the first few moments of the engagement. She never even saw the torpedoes coming. Nothing remained after the blast except a few scraps of her rigging. They didn't stop, closing the distance until they were in our midst and firing in all directions with everything they had. The other two ships were fearsome, but the 02-O'Bannon was a true monster." Atsui opened his eyes, though the memories lingered there like a fog of cannon smoke and burning oil. "The ship moved through our position avoiding everything we threw at it and exploiting every weakness it found along the way. The longer we fought, the more cracks formed in our defense. Like a shark, the O'Bannon pursued the scent of blood in the water." Atsui rubbed at grit of weariness that settled in his eyes while recounting the battle that almost claimed his life. "We only managed to stop the attack through a stroke of luck. One of the other attacking destroyers took a torpedo and crashed into the 02-O'Bannon which had been close astern to the damaged ship."

The Commander's eyes flashed, and Matchless knew at that moment that the tables had turned. Her little heart swelled with pride for her Commander, and she felt a pang of guilt for having doubted him in the first place. Nobody could defeat the Commander!

"This is exactly the kind of officer we need in our production fleet," the Commander said. "Someone with an instinct for battle and the drive to overcome the odds. We're fighting an enemy that studies us and learns from our doctrine. If we hope to overcome the Sirens, we must direct our efforts toward adaptability over convention." The Commander stood up straight and folded his hands at the small of his back again. "We need someone capable of discerning and exploiting the enemy's weaknesses as they present themselves."

An unexpected smile spread across the Commander's face. A handsome smile. A _knowing_ smile. He had them right where he wanted them.

"We need a shark hunting for blood in the water." The Commander's smile widened into a confident grin. Matchless felt warmth spread through her cheeks as she watched her leader revel in the speechlessness of his superiors.

*;*;*

The rest of the meeting left Matchless feeling bored, no small feat considering the anxiety she endured during the first half of the meeting. Discussion about budgets, supply lines, research, and other such tedious topics left the destroyer girl spacing out. She snapped out of it when the Admiralty Board concluded their business and started to leave. Matchless pulled open the door and held it for them while wearing a practiced and perfectly polite smile. Her usual cheeky grin tended to keep most of her superiors from taking her seriously as the Commander's secretary.

"Good work, Matchless," the Commander said once the last of the Board members departed. "That is a truly professional smile you have there." He grinned at her, and the destroyer girl's cheeks reddened again..

"It's only because you taught me so well!" She exclaimed a little louder than she meant to-which, of course, only deepened the shade of red creeping across her face. "You're always protecting me, Commander. Even if it's just from ridicule!"

"Oh, come now," said the Commander. He made a dismissive gesture with his hand. "Everyone needs a little help from time time time. You are more than capable on your own merit, never doubt yourself." When Matchless did not appear convinced he added: "Would I have made you my secretary if I thought you incompetent or incapable?"

The ship girl mulled that over for a second, brow furrowing in contemplation. On one hand, she never felt very capable in her own right. On the other hand, she trusted the Commander's judgment without exception.

"I guess not," Matchless said, settling for hesitant acceptance of the Commander's assessment.

The pair of them left the conference room with the Commander leading the way, and Matchless followed along beside him. Together. they made their way back towards the Commander's office. They passed many members of the port's support staff along the way, and the Commander greeted each one by name. The destroyer girl never understood how he kept all that information straight in his head. She felt lucky just to remember the names of all the other ship girls in the Joint Fleet!

Stopping in front of his office door, the Commander produced a keycard from his pocket and swiped it through the card reader mounted on the door's frame. It beeped a cheerful note and the lock clicked open. Matchless opened the door for the Commander, who thanked her before stepping inside.

"You really showed the Board today, right Commander?" Matchless asked, stepping inside and closing the door behind her. "Proved them all wrong!" Adoration radiated from her like light from a star. It made the Commander chuckle.

In the past, Matchless thought the Commander was laughing _at_ her instead of with her. She felt certain that, like everyone else, the Commander wasn't taking her seriously. On one particular occasion, the Commander's laugh hurt her feelings so much that she fled back to the Royal Navy dormitories and hid in her room. He appeared at her dorm not long after and insisted that she explain what had happened to send her scurrying off.

So, the destroyer girl told the Commander her reason for running away. Matchless remembered the look of guilt that creased his features when she finished. He told her that he felt ashamed for not having noticed the distress he caused Matchless.. The chuckling and laughter did not come at her expense, he explained. Despite being a ship girl-a wielder of powerful weapons of technological anomaly-she had a habit of reminding him that she was still a person. He found her human quirks endearing, and it ensured that he never forgot his responsibility to all of the ship girls. They were soldiers, _not_ weapons.

From that moment on, Matchless knew the Commander would be the protector she sought. The protector she _needed_.

"They weren't _wrong_, Matchless," the Commander said. The sound of his voice snapped Matchless back from her reverie. She blinked at him, a blank look on her face.

"Huh?"

"They have valid concerns about my candidate for the open Production Fleet officer," the Commander repeated. "He appears to be impulsive and rather reckless. If not handled correctly, he could very well prove to be a dangerous liability to the GPC Joint fleet."

"Commander, I don't understand," the destroyer girl said, brows knitting together. "Why did you fight to have him transferred here, then?"

Moving around to the back of his desk, the Commander pulled open the top left drawer and retrieved a twin pack of chocolate chip cookies. The foil packaging crinkled as he peeled it open at the seam and held it out towards Matchless. Every night since the misunderstanding with her, the Commander shared a twin pack of chocolate chip cookies from his personal stash with the destroyer girl; she ate one, and he ate one. A small, simple gesture that meant the world to Matchless.

She took her cookie from the pack and uttered a shy word of thanks before nibbling on her sweet treat. Her bright violet eyes never left the Commander, though. Matchless waited expectantly for him to elaborate on his decision to recruit Commander Reese.

"Because if we _do_ handle him correctly-if we _guide _him in the right direction and cultivate the right mindset, he could be an exceptional asset," the Commander said. A confident grin lit up his face, and he met his secretary's gaze with eyes that made it difficult to doubt his judgement. She would have sailed out to meet the Sirens all by herself if the Commander looked at her like that and asked it of her.

Matchless could see the five o'clock shadow creeping along his jawline in the fading light of sunset that spilled through the found that some stubble or a short, scrubby beard suited the Commander better than a clean shave. Whenever he spent time out to sea, he came back with untidy facial hair on the cusp of becoming a true beard adorning his squared jaw and ever-so-slightly rounded cheeks. Matchless thought it gave him a handsome, roguish look that she may or may not have fantasized about at her desk on slow paperwork days.

"How do we do that?" She asked, making a conscious effort to stop daydreaming about the way the golden light of dusk highlighted the contours of his face.

"We take someone else on the opposite end of the spectrum, someone disciplined and inflexible, and make them work together in the hopes they will meet somewhere in the middle," the Commander said, pulling his own cookie from the foil. He discarded the empty package into the wastebasket beside his desk without looking.

"Did you already have someone in mind, Commander?" Matchless asked, sounding uncertain. Sure, it _sounded_ simple when put like that, but she understood enough to know that the nuances of a working relationship were complex. The outcome of such arrangements were impossible to predict with any certainty, weren't they?

"I had a few thoughts regarding the matter," the Commander said, speaking in an innocent tone that didn't fool the destroyer girl for a second. His confident smile returned; the same smile he wore when he had the Admiralty Board right where he wanted them. The smile of a shark catching the scent of blood in the water.

"Tell me," the commander said, pausing to take a bite of his cookie. He took the time to chew and swallow before finishing the thought. "Have you seen _Takao _lately?"

* * *

**Author** **Note: **Hello, and thanks for reading the first chapter of my Azur Lane story. I noticed that the fandom is looking a bit thin in terms of fanfiction, and so decided to try my hand at it. I suspect the reason (or one of the reasons, anyway) for the lack of Azur Lane fanfic is the sheer amount of holes in the lore. For the purposes of this story, I will do my best to fill in those gaps where I can in a way I feel is most logical to the setting. Given how small this fandom is, I am always open to feedback and suggestions from my readers. If you would like to see a particular ship girl make an appearance, go ahead and make a request!

On the off chance that you are one of my Bloodborne readers, hang in there! Your patience will be rewarded soon!


	2. Language of the Sky

**Author ****Note:** I appreciate the messages of encouragement I received after posting the first chapter. I had been concerned that a slower build to action in such a small fandom would not be taken well. Thank all of you, dear readers, for proving me wrong. I look forward to continue writing this grand epic for you all. Without further ado...

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_A roar dies at birth_

_Smothered by whisper's sweet kiss_

_Battle cry unsung _

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**Chapter 2:** Language of the Sky

The next morning, thick gray storm clouds greeted Enterprise as she stepped out from the Eagle Union fleet dormitories and into the dull morning light. Despite the early hour, she already sported her carrier riggings and uniform. Looking up toward the clouds, a small frown curled her lips at the corners; the Port seemed to be in for some rough seas.

Last night, the carrier girl spotted the Admiralty Board motorcade departing from the base. Visits from the Board almost never meant good things for the Joint Fleet. Most communications between the Commander and the Admiralty Board occurred via correspondence-traditional mail or, as of recently, the new cutting edge telecommunications system. Whenever the top brass made a point of appearing in-person, tumult soon followed. Enterprise hoped that _this_ time might be different, but the storm brewing overhead lowered her expectations. The sky never lied.

In Enterprise's time, she came to recognize that the sky extolled all sorts of truths and prophecies to those who took the time to look for them. Being a carrier, she spent a great deal of time with her eyes on the sky. It started with an understanding of weather patterns, but over time she began to see correlations between the sky and the events unfolding on the world below. Did the sky predict the actions of people, or did it influence them? Enterprise didn't think she would ever know for sure.

Dropping her gaze back to earth, Enterprise started off down the pathway to the airfield hangars. Only a handful of base staff milled around the Port so early in the morning, but those she passed gave her a wide berth and a respectful greeting. Enterprise offered polite nods and short greetings in response.

Most of the human troops on the base tended to give her plenty of space. All ship girl riggings were special-and not yet fully understood-mechanisms. The carrier riggings, however, were special beyond all others. Protocol prohibited any unauthorized interface with carrier riggings, accidental or otherwise. Enterprise supposed that others might steer clear of her because of her reputation as the most decorated warship of the World War. Some of the base staff had been her enemy at that time, and Enterprise fully expected some of them to hold grudges. After all, didn't she have a few of her own?

Long, purposeful strides carried Enterprise out from the living area and into the cluster of hangars situated around the airstrip. She passed between two of the arched-roof hangar structures and stopped at the edge of the tarmac. Across from her, on the far side of the runway, a cluster of figures clad in flight suits from all different nations formed a loose clump as they chattered amongst themselves.

Enterprise stepped out onto the blacktop and made her way over towards the waiting pilots. Her finned heels clicked against the hard surface of the runway, and the sound must have carried over to the pilots. A few of them glanced back over their shoulders at the approaching carrier girl before turning back to inform the others. The clump broke up and formed a neat line along the edge of the runway with each pilot standing at attention. They knew the drill-or at least enough of them did to get the rookies to stand in line and face the right direction.

"At ease," said Enterprise. She paced down the line of pilots checking over their physical condition for any glaring issues. Even though the planned sortie consisted only of training exercises, the carrier girl found it unacceptable to risk lives because a pilot failed to take proper care of themselves.

"Despite the coming inclement weather, the training exercises are still set to move forward," she said, explaining the situation as she carried out her inspection. A strong gust of wind swept across the runway sending the carrier girl's long white tresses and coattails billowing out behind her like banners. Enterprise grabbed her cap by the brim before the wind could pluck it from her head, and the pilots braced against the gale. Once the gust died down, she continued without missing a beat. "If any of you feel unfit to pilot your aircraft, speak up now. I don't want anyone behind a fight stick who isn't one-hundred percent."

When the carrier girl didn't recognize a face, it tended to be a young face. Most transfers came fresh from flight school. Young and bright-eyed, they still wore their naivety like a sweater-comforting protection against the cold realities of war. So during the course of her inspection, when Enterprise came across a more mature face she failed to recognize, she paused in front of him.

To put it simply, Enterprise found the face in question to be a weary one. Not just in expression, mind you, but in its very structure. A square jaw and low cheekbones balanced out his thin cheeks, saving the man from an outright gaunt appearance-albeit barely. Too many quick shaves and exposure to exhaust marred the face's pale skin with pockmarks and mild pitting along the jawline and cheeks. Eyes the depth and color of the arctic sea stared back at Enterprise from beneath thin blond brows. They lacked the exuberance that the young pilots shared, passionate fire exchanged for something much milder. In fact, the slight downtilt on their outside corners gave off the distinct appearance of perpetual sadness.

"I've never seen you before, pilot," said Enterprise. She turned to face the unfamiliar pilot and noticed that without her heels they would be standing at the same height. "What's your name and rank?"

"Starshii Serzhant Matvei Nemtsev, ma'am," said the pilot. He spoke in a small, apologetic voice that Enterprise struggled to hear over the wind. She frowned, but chose to give Nemtsev the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps he needed to work out the first day jitters? Nobody expected to be thrown into training exercises on their first day, and in a storm no less.

"Sarshii Serzhant," she said, parroting the words and getting a feel for the inflection. "That's 'Senior Sergeant' in North Union, correct?" For some reason, Enterprise thought that the name rang a bell. It sounded familiar enough, but the context eluded her.

The pilot nodded and said something she couldn't make out over the wind. It _looked_ as if he said 'yes, ma'am,' which made sense.

"Speak up, Senior Sergeant," said Enterprise. She wanted to sound stern, but may have taken it over into chiding. The pilot straightened up, and the carrier read the coming apology on his face before the words even formed in his lungs.

"Excuse me, ma'am," said the Eagle Union pilot to Nemtsev's left. He spoke in a thick southern drawl that Enterprise recognized without having to look. Dennis Bowyer always addressed the carrier girl with the same respect she imagined he gave his own mother. In a way, she felt a certain fondness for the earnest southern boy. He greeted her with enthusiasm on the street, took off his usual tractor logo baseball cap in her presence, and overall treated her just like anyone else; most of all, he did it without a second thought.

Bowyer cleared his throat and continued. "Commander said ya might be a bit sore a'first on account'a my buddy here talkin' so quiet. He said if ya sore abou'dit to tell ya he can' 'elp it. See, 'e fell inna some frozen pond as a little'un an' got 'emself mighty sick. It damaged 'is voice box."

Enterprise arched a delicate brow at Bowyer. If anyone else told her such a story, she might have them grounded a week for lying. Who in their right mind would allow a man who struggled with communication to pilot a _combat aircraft_?

"Oh, hol' on a minnit, ma'am," said Boywer, going to dig into his flight suit pocket. After a moment of rummaging around, he produced a small piece of notebook paper folded in half. Bowyer grinned the innocent grin of a schoolboy proud of being prepared when called on by the teacher. "Commander said if ya have 'that face' on, I should give ya this 'ere." He held the paper out towards Enterprise.

She plucked it from his hand with two fingers and unfolded it, incredulous-and somewhat indignant-that she was so predictable as to make a particular 'face'. A frown creased the carrier girl's face when she read the words scribble on the page. She read them once, twice, and then six more times. No doubt about it, the note came from the Commander. Enterprise recognized the handwriting, and his long, looping signature would be hard for anyone to forge.

Enterprise resisted the urge to sigh through valiant effort and looked up over the edge of the note at Bowyer and Nemtsev. The pair could not have been more different. Bowyer stood at least a foot taller than Nemtsev, and his boyish features were round in all the places Nemtsev's were not. Tanned, freckled, and dark-haired, Enterprise wondered if the Commander purposefully chose the North Union pilot's polar opposite to be his advocate. It sounded like something the Commander would do just to have a bit of amusement at her expense.

"Very well," said Enterprise after a pregnant pause. She folded the note back up and shoved it into her jacket pocket. "Though, allow me to put this on record for you, Senior Sergeant Nemtsev." Clasping her hands behind her back, the carrier girl straightened up and fixed the North Union pilot with a sharp gaze. "I have high expectations of my pilots. If I think that for any reason your condition impairs the squadron's ability to operate, or otherwise endangers the other pilots, I _will_ have you transferred out."

Enterprise didn't bother asking if he understood; she couldn't be any clearer even if she wanted to. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Bowyer's usual grin falter. No doubt he felt responsible for Nemtsev, and it made her feel a bit guilty to put him on the spot _with _the North Union pilot. However, Enterprise couldn't afford to be soft or flexible when it came to her pilots; _that_ is how she ended up writing letters to families whose loved ones wouldn't be coming home.

"Alright, all pilots get to your planes," said Enterprise, turning away from Nemtsev and walking back to the middle of the line. "Flight crews are already preparing them for sortie. Be ready to load onto my flight deck."

*;*;*

As far as normalcy is concerned, being a pilot for a carrier ship girl is about as far away as is possible to be. Unlike traditional production model aircraft carriers, it required a much different process to load the carrier riggings of a ship girl. Enterprise, having been born the ship girl she was, found it as natural as breathing. Though, having watched how the production model aircraft carriers load their craft, she understood how it must have been disconcerting to the pilots.

Standing in the middle of the runway, Enterprise raised a hand towards the aircraft gathered up in neat rows at the end of the strip. A hollow thumping sound rolled across the tarmac followed by a woosh of air as a portal of sorts opened in front of her. To boil down the anomaly's function to something as generic as "portal" would cause most of the Port researchers to tear their hair out. In truth, it acted as a space-time magnifying lens which bridged the gap between 'normal space' and 'subspace'. The carrier riggings stored their aircraft in this so-called 'subspace'. This allowed a single human-sized ship girl-Enterprise, for instance-to carry a compliment of craft many times her size.

How did the process work, exactly? Nobody knew for certain, not even the carrier girls themselves. Port researchers struggled to unlock the mysteries of subspace traversal ever since the ship girls first emerged. So far, all that existed were theories related to extra-dimensional physics we could not observe properly in our three-dimensional space.

The ground crews, experienced enough by then to get the loading process started on their own, guided the pilots along with lightsticks and hand signals. Thirty-six F4U Corsair fighter-bombers lined up in staggered double file lines on the tarmac. Enterprise's riggings could fit upwards of ninety aircraft, but for the purposes of keeping training costs down, only three squadrons were set to deploy from her deck that morning.

She studied the craft as they began to taxi down the airstrip at a crawl. Each Corsair kept their traditional dark blue base coat of paint, but lost their trademark Eagle Union star and stripes. Instead, the Global Postwar Coalition emblem-a cerberus guarding a globe-marked each wing and fuselage. Flag markers on the tail indicated which country in the Coalition each pilot hailed from.

Enterprise sought out the North Union flags as the columns filed through the portal at taxi speed. She spotted two of them, but knew from the familiar nose art that neither were Nemtsev's fighter. Toward the end of the loading line, the carrier girl saw one last North Union tail marker. The profile of a skull making a shushing gesture had been painted on the engine cover just behind the fighter's nose. A single word in the language of the North Union had been stenciled in beneath the macabre nose art: "тишина".

She wondered what it meant for a moment, and then shoved all thoughts about the Matvei Nemtsev to the back of her mind.

When loading concluded, Enterprise closed the gateway and made her way down toward the harbor. Inside the little bubble of compressed space supported by her riggings, her pilots would exit their planes and wait around on standby for the General Quarters alarm to go off.

When Enterprise first came to life the inside of her rigging space had been, for lack of a better descriptor, blank. Nothing but a deck, some elevators, and empty storage. Over time, the Port staff went into the rigging subspace and constructed facilities for the pilots to make it more functional. Food, supplies, beds, and all manners of functional amenities had been constructed in the subspace for the sake of the pilots.

She could speak to her pilots inside the subspace bubble, too. All Enterprise needed to do was think about talking to them, and the words she spoke were broadcast to them like radio. It meant she could keep them up to date on location and exterior conditions. An important feature because inside the rigging space, there existed only blank infinity in all directions around the deck.

"We will be underway momentarily," said Enterprise to her pilots. "All pilots are free to shut down their aircraft and deboard their planes. Stay alert, and be ready for action at the sound of the General Quarters alarm."

*;*;*

Frustration bubbled in the pit of Enterprise's stomach. Usually, the worries gnawing at her disappeared when she took that first, skating stride out onto the glistening ocean surface. However, on that stormy morning, they followed her out onto the waves. Rather, it _intensified_ her agitation to be out on the water. The choppy seas and rumbling thunder reminded her that even a training exercise could prove deadly to her pilots in poor conditions. It brought her thoughts back around to the near-mute Nemtsev.

Enterprise, like most of the other ship girls of the Joint Fleet, trusted the Commander's judgement. Through countless battles and in the face of insurmountable odds, he never failed them. In some cases, however, the more stubborn women-like Enterprise-failed to see the light at the end of the tunnel. Just _how_ could a pilot like _that_ be anything but a danger to the others?

Unable to find the logic in the Commander's decision, the carrier girl skated out over the rolling waves. Stormy seas or otherwise, Enterprise navigated the rough ocean surface with the grace of ballet dancer. She felt as home at sea as she did anywhere else-perhaps _more_ than anywhere else. Even beneath the storm clouds and through the wind-driven rain, Enterprise felt the sky speaking to her in its mysterious language. She wished she could take comfort in it, but the sky appeared to feel just as agitated as Enterprise.

Out in the designated training zone, the carrier girl spotted another figure waiting. A single electric blue eye peered out through a bobbed curtain of jet black hair. One hand on her hip, Ark Royal offered the approaching carrier girl a polite wave.

"Good morning Ark," said Enterprise, coming to a stop beside the Royal Navy carrier. "Am I late?" Enterprise preferred to be punctual. With her reputation as the most decorated vessel of the World War, she wanted to live up to expectations.

"No, no, not at all," said Ark Royal with a dismissive wave of her gloved hands. "I sailed out early to see if there would be any destroyer escorts participating in the training exercises." The Royal Navy carrier sounded as nonchalant as Enterprise reasoned someone _could _while trying to hide their borderline socially unacceptable obsessions. At least Ark maintained enough dignity not to drool at the very thought. "Alas, it seems we're to conduct these exercises just the two of us."

"I feel sorry for your pilots," Enterprise said, speaking in a flat tone. "You got them up and loaded early just to venture out here to harass destroyers. They could have used the extra sleep after yesterday's double training run."

"W-what? Harass?" Ark Royal stammered, holding up her hands in a placating gesture. The usually poised and regal carrier girl offered Enterprise a nervous chuckle and her best attempt at an innocent expression. "I would never do such a thing. I just thought in the rough seas it would just be_, _well, _safer_ if a carrier were around should something dramatic come to pass."

Enterprise cocked an eyebrow at Ark as the Royal Navy carrier continued to spout her excuses. The Eagle Union carrier said nothing, letting Ark run out of steam on her own. Ark, seeing her excuses roll off of Enterprise like the rain, hung her head and sighed.

"I shall excuse my pilots from their afternoon regimen and see to it they have a satisfying meal from the cantina," said Ark, a deep red flush creeping across the bridge of her nose.

"Overworked pilots are a danger to themselves and others," Enterprise said, driving her point a little deeper. "A full human sleep cycle is ninety minutes. Your pilots could have had an extra sleep cycle this morning." On any other occasion, Enterprise might not have pushed the point so hard. She respected Ark Royal and, in most cases, found Ark to be a responsible leader.

"I never thought… I mean, never intended to…" Ark looked as if she just kicked a puppy on accident, eyes wide, brows knit together, and her mouth turned down into a guilty frown. She lowered her head and stared at the sea beneath their feet. "I value the lives of my pilots. You are right, Enterprise. I made a foolish mistake."

Enterprise softened a little when she saw how her words shook her friend. Taking out her frustrations on anyone other than the cause did nothing but spread it around. She pulled in a deep breath through her nose and let it out a weary sigh.

"I know you are a responsible carrier, Ark," said Enterprise, a bit gentler with her tone this time. "I'm just taking my frustrations out on you, and that's not fair. You've been a good friend, and you deserve better than to be treated like someone careless and unfocused."

Ark Royal looked up at Enterprise, studying the Eagle Union carrier's face for a moment before her usual, confident smile returned.

"Now you beat on yourself instead of me?" Ark said, placing her hands on her hips and standing up straight. "Something truly does weigh on you. Tell me, what is the cause of this state of agitation? Is there anything I can do to allay your worries?"

"Not unless you can convince the Commander he's made a poor choice," Enterprise said, looking down at her riggings where her pilots waited in subspace.

"The Commander?" Ark asked, sounding uncertain. "What's he done?"

"Assigned me a pilot with difficulty speaking," Enterprise said, looking back up at Ark Royal. "His voice is a whisper at best. How will he communicate over the sound of plane engines and gunfire?"

Ark raised a hand to her chin, brow furrowed as she considered the circumstances. She stayed silent for a long moment, puzzling over the potential reasons for the Commander's insistence on permitting such a pilot. In the end the Royal Navy carrier dropped her hands to her side and shrugged helplessly.

"I can't say I understand, either," Ark admitted. "Perhaps the Commander thinks the radio amplifier will be enough?"

Enterprise hummed a noncommittal response, staring off into the distance. To tell the truth, the horizon distracted her. Forks of lightning struck down from the clouds and pierced the ocean surface. She thought the pitching waves and rolling thunderheads resembled the gnashing teeth of some unfathomable maw. Maybe it was true in some way. The sea and the sky devoured the unprepared-swallowed them whole and dragged them into the depths, never to be seen again. It made her uneasy.

A tap on the shoulder shook Enterprise from her trance. She looked back at Ark. The Royal Navy carrier held up gold and brass pocket watch, turning the clock face towards Enterprise.

"The exercise is set to commence shortly," Ark said, smiling at her friend. "Best to sound General Quarters and allow the pilots to prepare."

Enterprise nodded. She spared one last glance at the foreboding horizon before reaching down to flick the alarm switch on one of her rigging panels.


	3. Those Who Dare

**Author Note:** This chapter is dedicated to Lieutenant Colonel Matt L. Urban whose feats are detailed (without exaggeration) in the following chapter. My only regret is that I am unable to include _all_ of his noteworthy actions in this story with the detail they deserve. To do so would require a novel in its own right.

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_Shards of mirror glass_

_Dancing to death in the fire_

_Killing reflections_

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**Chapter 3:** Those Who Dare

Hood started her morning with such high hopes for a pleasant day. How did she end up sitting in the interrogation room of a military police precinct beside an Ironblood battleship? A rhetorical question, of course; Hood knew _exactly_ how she came into that particular set of circumstances. Waiting for the MP officer to return, the regal blonde battlecruiser reflected on the course of events that led her there.

It all started when Hood went up to meet the Commander for their scheduled biweekly meeting. The Commander enjoyed a good cup of tea, and at regular intervals he invited Hood up to his office to inquire after the state of the Royal Navy. At first, Hood wondered why he hadn't extended the honor to King George V, Price of Whales, or Queen Elizabeth herself. As the months marched on, however, she wrote such questions off as folly and opted to enjoy the trust he put in her observations. Hood supposed that while she spoke the truth gently, she never sugar-coated it, either.

Imagine her surprise when she stepped into the Commander's office expecting their usual teatime meeting only to find him sitting behind his desk with the Ironblood battleship Tirpitz sitting opposite him. Tirpitz looked up from the file folder in her hands, and Hood looked from the Commander to the Lone Queen in the North. Both women looked away as soon as their eyes met, turning back to the Commander with expressions of uncertainty.

Any potential for a leisurely afternoon, one punctuated by fine tea and good company, disappeared when the Joint Fleet's commanding officer slid a thick file-one identical to the one in Tirpitz's hands-across his desk and instructed Hood to take it. The Commander gestured for the battlecruiser to take a seat in the open chair beside Tirpirz. Hood could not remember the last time her posture felt so stiff and awkward.

Once she settled in, the Commander explained his reason for bringing the pair together. In light of recent events, and a desire by the Admiralty Board to take a more offensive stance against the Siren threat, the Commander initiated formation of a new unit. The unit, designated the GPC 1st Special Services Company, would serve as the naval infantry component for direct action operations against Siren strategic positions.

When Hood inquired as to their relation to the new unit, the Commander informed her that she and Tirpitz were to act as the primary fire support for the SSD. As such, he wanted them to interview a potential candidate for commission as its commanding officer. If the candidate agreed, he wanted Hood and Tirpitz to transport him back to the Port. The Commander offered no course of action in the event the candidate should _refuse_. In retrospect, the Royal Navy ship suspected this to be a purposeful omission.

Hood knew better than to believe their "interview" would be anything more than a formality. After all, if the Commander winnowed down the options to one last individual, how could she claim to know any better? That said, whatever the _actual _motive behind sending Hood and Tirpitz on their errand, she believed it to be pure. Despite his reputation for stirring the pot and rustling feathers, the battlecruiser woman knew that the Commander only ever acted in the Joint Fleet's best interest.

As the day wore on, Hood needed to continually remind herself of her belief in the Commander. The battlecruiser woman's faith struggled in the face of small obstacles along the way that piled up one after the next until she faced a veritable mountainclimb.

First, the address on file turned out to be incorrect. The building's landlord informed Hood that their former tenant moved out over a month ago to a new complex across town. Then, once they tracked down the new address, they knocked three times on the apartment door without answer. One of the neighbors poked her head out from the door across the hall and explained that the man they sought had been arrested in a bar brawl the previous night.

After stopping at four different police precincts in the area, one of the desk officers finally suggested that they visit the military police station just down the road from the nearby army base. Continuing on their wild goose chase was the last thing Hood wanted to do with the remnants of her day, but it would have been unacceptable to report back to the Commander without exhausting every search option. So, Hood and Tirpitz headed out toward the military police checkpoint outside of Fort Starn.

Perhaps more disheartening than their setbacks, Hood didn't think Tirpitz uttered more than a few words throughout their journey. Despite the battlecruiser's best attempts at making polite small talk, all avenues of conversation came up dead ends. The awkwardness between them made Hood's insides squirm. Tirpitz's big sister, Bismarck, had been the one to send Hood to the bottom of the ocean. By the same token, Hood's demise led to the sinking of Bismarck and Tirpitz's isolation in the icy northern seas. What did the Commander hope to accomplish by sticking _them _together?

When at last the pair arrived at the military police precinct, the desk officer confirmed that they had the man they sought in custody. When Hood inquired as to why the man had been arrested in the first place, the desk officer shifted uncomfortably in his seat and glanced over at Tirpitz.

"Well, the altercation started with some words exchanged about a former Ironblood soldier drinking in the bar," the officer explained. Hood remembered the way his gaze kept flicking over to gauge Tirpitz's response as he filled in the details. "When the local police arrived to break it up, one of the responding officers made a comment to the, uh, _suspect_, about getting involved with… well, to quote the officer, 'dirt-bloods.'" The officer watched Tirptiz with the same trepidation as someone waiting for a bomb to go off in their hands. The Ironblood battleship's expression remained frozen.

The desk officer went on to explain that the 'suspect' beat the bigoted officer senseless, along with his two mates, and reinitiated the bar brawl before someone wised up and called the Fort Starn MP's to deal with the fighting soldiers.

When Hood informed the desk officer that they had orders from the GCP Joint Fleet commander to meet with the suspect in question, the desk officer seemed all too happy to oblige. Come to think of it, Hood suspected that he just wanted the problem to be anybody's but his own. He snatched up a set of keys and hopped up from his chair as if the seat of his pants caught fire. The battlecruiser recalled thinking something along the lines of 'if only people moved so fast for reasons _other _than evading personal responsibility.'

He situated the ship girls in one of the interrogation rooms and told them to wait there while he retrieved the suspect. Apparently, the man Hood and Tirpitz came for found his way into solitary confinement-'for the safety of the _others_ arrested at the bar fight,' so said the desk officer. So, there they waited, bringing Hood back around to where the whole train of thought began.

The interrogation room door clicked, and the desk officer ushered someone inside. He guided the prisoner by the shoulder to a metal chair on the opposite side of the table from Hood and Tirpitz. Sitting down, the prisoner placed his hands on the tabletop and looked from one woman to the other, and then back up at the desk officer. The officer shrugged at the silent question before making for the door.

"Just tap the buzzer button here when you're done," said the desk officer. He gestured to a silver-gray box on the doorframe with a lone green button in the middle.

"Thank you, officer," Hood said and offered the man a diplomatic smile. "We appreciate your assistance in this matter." The officer nodded and left the room, shutting the door behind him. A deep metallic _clunk_ followed as the bolt engaged and locked the ships in with the man they spent all day trying to find.

Hood turned around to face the table and adjusted herself to sit like a proper lady-back drawn straight, legs aligned together, knees angled to one side, and heels drawn slightly to the rear. In the past, the battlecruiser enjoyed many compliments on her perfect poise. Despite the flattery, she always felt correct posture came part and parcel with being a proper lady.

To her left, Tirpitz leafed through the personnel file given to them by the Commander. Hood followed suit, turning back the cover and scanning over the face sheet. To her shame, the Royal Navy woman failed to read over the file at any point prior to their meeting. By the look of things, Hood suspected that Tirpitz wrestled with the same realization.

"Pardon our sudden appearance," Hood said, pausing to look up at the man sitting opposite her. It felt natural for her to take the lead given Tirpitz's seeming lack of social initiative. At least, that's the excuse she told herself. It _may_ have been that Hood didn't quite trust the Ironblood battleship to handle the talking. In any case, if Hood taking the lead bothered Tirpitz, she betrayed no signs of her chagrin. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Hood of Her Majesty's Royal Navy. This, is Tirpitz of Ironblood. You are Captain Jasper Rodes, correct?"

"I am," said the man. He spoke with a deep and gruff voice. A pale ring of smooth scar tissue, roughly the diameter of a 9mm bullet, marked Rodes's throat just to the left of his Adam's apple. Hood wondered if he sounded as he did because of the injury, or in spite of it.

Jasper Rodes looked like what Hood imagined a veteran viking might; tall, broad-shouldered, and rippling with scars and muscle in equal measure. He kept his thick chestnut hair combed straight back from his forehead, and patches of premature gray shone silver at his temples. He sported a full beard, well-groomed and flecked with gray just like his hair. At first glance, Hood thought Rodes's eyes were pale blue. Upon closer inspection, however, she determined that they were a piercing silver-gray. It were as if the slow graying of his features started in his irises. Hood spied a glint in that steel gaze that flashed at her like sunlight from a sword.

"It says here you immigrated to the Eagle Union from one of the countries caught in the Ironblood Blitz," said Hood, continuing on when it became clear Rodes would say no more. "You changed your name from Kacper Rodziński to Jasper Rodes when you finalized the paperwork. Why?"

"To sound less ethnic," said Rodes, looking from Hood to Tirpitz. This time, the blonde battlecruiser waited patiently for the man to elaborate. When he caught on to her expectant look-or maybe when he lost his patience for waiting her out-the man sighed. "I came to the Eagle Union to get my parents and siblings away from the war, but so did everyone else. The more ignorant Eagle Unioners couldn't distinguish my family's name from an Ironblood name. Those that _could_ turned up their noses for other reasons. I wasn't about to let pride drag my family into some slum. I changed our names and learned english better than most Eagle Unioners." Hood paid no mind to the note of impatience in his voice. The ship girls set out with a job to do, and she didn't come so far to do it halfway through.

"You joined the Eagle Union Army to gain citizenship, then?" Hood said, reading through the enlistment summary in the file.

"No," Rodes said flatly. Hood blinked, caught off guard by the unexpected response. She looked up at Rodes, searching his face for signs of sarcasm.

"No?"

"No."

"Then why, if I may ask?" The Royal Navy ship didn't see why someone would volunteer to fight for a country that wasn't theirs if not for citizenship. Did Rodes not himself state the necessity of changing his name just to find acceptance in the Eagle Union?

"Because it was only a matter of time before the Eagle Union joined the war," said Rodes, meeting Hood's gaze with an intensity that made it difficult for her to look away. "Neutrality only works as long as everyone is willing to _let_ you stay neutral. It wasn't going to happen, and when diplomacy failed, I planned on being ready." Hood found it difficult to refute him; his service record spoke for itself. As a matter of fact, boiling it down to "being ready" would have been a gross understatement.

"I see," Hood said, looking for a segway into the next part of the interview. "Very well, then. I would like to go over a few details of your service record with you as to come to a better understanding of what transpired."

Rodes seemed to consider refusal for a moment, Hood watched the disinterest building behind his eyes. Then, he reached up, scratched his chin, and folded his hands on the stainless steel tabletop.

"Alright, shoot," said Rodes, the slightest hint of a challenge in his rumbling voice.

Hood flipped a few pages through the file and scanned the highlighted notes-no doubt highlighted by the Commander to draw her attention.

"It says here that during the Operation Torch landings in the Vichya Dominion, your transport ship took a shell from a coastal defense battery and began to sink," Hood said, summarizing as she read. "You abandoned ship, but rather than seek rescue by another vessel, you pulled another man from the sea and made your landing via small rowing raft to shore. All of this while under fire from weapon emplacements on the shore. Is that correct?"

"We were halfway to the landing zone," Rodes explained. "The less troops we had on the beach, the longer those defenses would stay active. Every pair of boots we could get on the sand made a difference. I wasn't going to wait to be picked up while others died bloody in my place." Once again, the soldier's response took Hood by surprise. She never expected such an articulate answer-let alone a _noble_ answer. A bit of shame pricked the battlecruiser's heart; she knew better than to pass premature judgement.

"According to a Sergeant Earl G. Evans, despite being an officer, you refused evacuation after being wounded and insisted on leading a combat patrol out for your rotation," Hood continued, flipping to the next page of the file. Even with her eyes down on the paper, she felt Rodes's waiting gaze boring into the top of her skull. "Later, Sergeant Evans writes that your unit repelled an Ironblood counterattack through your individual efforts. The way it is described here, you refused to fall back when your unit routed. Instead, you held your ground, engaged the enemy in hand-to-hand combat, appropriated the weapons of those you defeated, and opened fire into the charging enemy. Can you explain why you, as the commanding officer of the unit, chose to hold the line on your own?"

Rodes scoffed at the question, shaking his head. Hood thought she might have gotten some of the details wrong, but he spoke before she could go back over the notes.

"Everyone puts officers on a pedestal," he said, sounding annoyed in the same way a parent might be after correcting their child for a mistake they made a hundred times before. "The purpose of an officer is to lead by _example_. Shouting at a bunch of soldiers whose morale has crumbled does nothing. _Showing_ them what you want from them, and demonstrating that it can be done, will build their confidence in you. More importantly, it will build their confidence in _themselves_."

For the first time since the interview started, Hood noticed motion to her left. Tirpitz looked up from the file and appeared to be studying Rodes as if she just recognized his presence. The Royal Navy woman went back to flipping through the file. Dozens of similar accolades filled his record. Manning anti-aircraft batteries that lost their crew, leading patrols out on his own, refusing evacuation when wounded. Hood paused when she came to the later entries. She read them twice, if only to make sure she hadn't been mistaken the first time.

"After the Operation Overlord beach landings on the coast of Iris Libre, you encountered heavy resistance when mounting an attack on a strategic Ironblood position, correct?" Hood asked, looking up from the file.

"Yes."

"Your company was pinned down by infantry supported by a pair of Ironblood tanks, and your only anti-tank soldier had been shot. It says here that you picked up the 'bazooka' launcher and convinced the gunner's ammunition carrier to follow you through the hedgerows, around the flank, and into an opening that allowed you to fire on the tanks. What happened next?" According to the file, Rodes knocked out both tanks and rallied his company to overtake the Ironblood position. However, she wanted to hear the details in _his_ words. It painted a clearer picture for her.

"I fired on the far tank first," said Rodes. He tipped his head back to look at the ceiling, and Hood saw him rummaging around for the memories of that day. "I didn't want to knock out the close tank first. The smoke and flames would obscure my sight of the far vehicle if I did. The shot hit and the tank went up. Then the Ironbloods closest to me turned and opened up on my position. I shoved Patterson-you know, my loader-flat on the ground and dove down next to him. He reloaded the tube while they shot at us, and I waited until the fire slackened enough to risk a second shot. I popped up, fired, and knocked out the second tank." Rodes dropped his gaze to meet hers again and shrugged. "Later that day, I tried the same trick again. Didn't work out so well. Tank shot before I did, and I took a piece of shrapnel to the leg. I had to give my orders from a stretcher for the rest of the day."

It went without saying that the captain refused evacuation. Hood read further and found that even after injuries severe enough to have him shipped back to Royal Navy territory, Rodes would not be stopped. The obstinate captain checked himself out of the hospital, _stowed away_ with Eagle Union troops being sent to reinforce the frontlines, and _hitchhiked _his way back to his unit.

The interview went on for another half an hour or so. Hood read one astounding feat after another, and Rodes explained his actions. The Commander highlighted the last entry in a different color, and after reading through, Hood understood why. During the allied breakout from the Overlord landing beaches, Rodes took charge of a battalion under threat of annihilation and rallied them into a counterattack that shattered the Ironblood lines.

He personally rescued a man pinned in a burning tank while under machine gun fire. Then, the captain made his way to a second tank with the turret knocked out and the driver trapped inside. Rodes climbed into the turret, still under fire from several machine gun emplacements, and convinced the driver to charge an anti-tank gun-the same gun that damaged his tank and knocked out several others. Once the tank got moving, Rodes manned the .50 caliber machine gun atop the turret and opened fire on Ironblood machine gun nests dotting the hillside. The anti-tank gun failed to kill Rodes or disable his tank before he came into a firing position and took out the gun crew. With their path cleared, Rodes pushed the attack, and the scattered elements of the battalion rallied behind him in a unified assault. His actions earned himself the Eagle Union's highest honor: the Congressional Medal of Honor.

Hood lapsed into silence while reading through the report, unaware of the growing pause in their conversation. Time after time, Rodes threw himself into the fray. Whenever the battlecruiser thought he could not outdo himself, she continued to read.

The sound of Rodes clearing his throat snapped the Royal Navy woman back to reality. Hood looked up from the file having the decency to look embarrassed.

"Please excuse me, Captain Rodes," Hood said, offering an apologetic smile. "There is quite the sum of material in your file. If you don't mind me saying so, I felt somewhat awed by the details." The battlecruiser closed the file and folded her hands one over the other atop the cover. "You've shown no small amount of bravery, captain, but it leaves me wondering after your motivation. What drove you to such lengths beyond acting as you believed a proper officer should?"

Frowning, a look of uncertainty passed across the grizzled veteran's face. She asked him to dig into something he likely afforded little consideration. Throwing himself into the fray must have come second nature to him-given his record, how could it not? Rodes drummed his fingers on the table once, then twice. The hollow reverberation of the stainless steel tabletop thrummed in the small interrogation room.

"Wolverines," said Rodes, nodding his head in a way that Hood interpreted as satisfaction with his own answer.

"My apologies, but I don't follow," said Hood, a patient smile painted on her lips. "Wolverines?"

"Wolverines are voracious hunters," Rodes explained. Another glint of steel flashed in his eyes. "They are fierce, tenacious predators. But that's not all. Wolverines are known for taking down animals much larger than themselves. Better still, when threatened by a larger predator, a wolverine bares its fangs and attacks with every ounce of fury it can muster." A grin split the captain's face and revealed a set of flawless teeth, much to Hood's astonishment. "Larger predators are not used to prey standing their ground, and that is the wolverine's advantage. Even when a wolverine is wounded in the fight, they continue to push the attack. In many cases the predator is driven away by the mad wolverine. Sometimes, the wolverine kills the predator and enjoys the spoils of victory. The lesson we learn from the wolverine is simple. Those who dare, win."

"But that is not always true," Hood said, blonde brows knitting together as she contemplated his meaning. She disliked refuting anyone without concrete evidence to lend credence to her claim, but there could be no such luxury in metaphorical circumstances. "Even the most daring warriors sometimes fall to their enemies. Valour alone is not enough to win the day."

"I understand." Tirpitz spoke up before the captain could respond. Hood turned to the Ironblood battleship, befuddled. Until that point, Tirpitz kept silent as the grave. If she spoke up to defend Rodes, Hood felt a strong inclination to believe her. "The point is to fight as if victory is always achievable regardless of the odds. An enemy expecting victory will be shaken when faced with a composed and confident foe. Planning for victory when faced with death is the only option."

Rodes nodded, agreeing with Tirpitz's interpretation. Hood supposed she understood it when put in those terms. If the alternative to victory is death, why not lay your best plans on the table and go for the gold? In fact, if Rodes _hadn't_ fought as though he could always come through the other side it would likely be a different person's file in her hands.

An unsettling thought slithered into the back of Hood's mind. Rodes and Tirpirz appeared to be thinking on the same wavelength whereas the battlecruiser woman struggled to grasp the breadth of it. Could it be that while Hood _carried _herself with knightly poise and pride, she lacked the conviction necessary to _be_ the knight she pretended to be?

The unsettling thought darkened. Could that be why she fell to Bismarck so readily? Hood knew beyond a shadow of doubt that Bismarck was a true warrior to the soul. If the Ironblood battleship sank Hood, the Pride of the Royal Navy, with such ease, could it be that Hood had never been a true knight at heart? Not like King George V, Prince of Wales, or even Duke of York, anyway.

Something clicked into place, and Hood achieved a greater understanding of Rodes's-and Tirpitz's-meaning. 'An enemy expecting victory will be shaken when faced with a composed and confident foe,' that is what Tirpitz said. Had she not been guilty of such arrogance? Hood's leadership and participation in the destruction of the Vichya fleet at Mers-el-Kébir inflated her ego. The Royal Navy thought her unsinkable, and perhaps she started to believe it herself. Then, she came face to face with a woman Rodes would describe as a 'wolverine'. Bismarck dared, and she won.

Hood felt a chill wrap around her like a shawl, settling over her shoulders and sinking into the skin. She must have gone pale, because Rodes regarded her with a look both inquiring and concerned-at least, Hood interpreted it as concern. It might very well have been suspicion or distaste.

"The MP officer we spoke to told us you were arrested for an altercation involving a former Ironblood soldier," said Tirpitz. Rodes, his expectant eyes having been fixed on Hood, glanced towards the Ironblood woman with a hint of amused surprise on his face. Hood's own curiosity as to the intent of Tirpitz's question helped her focus on the task at hand. Reflecting upon the implications of her own lacking honour could wait until a more suitable time. "I want to know what happened."

"Of course you do," said Rhodes. A low chuckle rumbled in his throat; a brief chuckle that may easily have been mistaken for a cough. "I noticed your uniform when you walked in. Been waiting for you to ask about the bar."

The captain sat back in his chair, and his hands slid off the table into his lap. His eyes never left Tirpitz, though. It seemed to Hood as if he were studying her-looking for something on the Ironblood's face or in her eyes.

"There was an Ironblood soldier drinking at the bar," the grizzled vetran said, his face smoothing out into a thoughtful expression. "Gerwin Besser's his name. I've seen him a few times working the second shift at the garden shop. The owner, Mister Drew, married an Ironblood girl after the first World War. Took pity on Besser's hard time and hired him on-God knows nobody _else _was going to." Rodes shook his head. He spat the word 'else' as if it left a bad taste in his mouth. The gray in his eyes changed from steel to stormcloud.

"Besser didn't like to travel too far from home," said Rodes. "A big chunk of his left foot is missing, and there's still some shrapnel in the meat of his leg according to Mister Drew. Only bar close to his place is the Spotted Mutt. Nobody must've told him that it was the favorite hangout of the enlisted grunts from the army base. He already sat down with a drink by the time they noticed him. I think they caught him thanking the bartender in Ironblood."

Tirpitz remained impassive as Rodes told his story, but Hood noticed the subtle way she started fidgeting. The battleship rubbed her thumb and forefinger together in small circles. Her other hand thumbed the corner of the file folder sitting on the tabletop.

"A handful of guys got up and moved in on Besser," Rodes continued. "When he got up to try and leave, they saw him limping and the heckling got worse. The enlisted boys surrounded him and started asking him if he got injured in the war. Started asking him how many Eagle Union troops he killed, and saying it was a crime that he didn't die instead." The captain sneered, his voice thick with disgust as he recounted the actions of his fellow soldiers.

"I had enough by that point, and I went over to the group just as they started shoving Besser between them like a pinball." Rodes scowled, and Hood noticed the muscles in his neck go taut as the anger boiled inside him. "I shoved one of them out of the way and pulled Besser out of the middle. They all looked at me like I just took a shit on the flag and wiped my ass with their uniforms."

A small twinge at the corner of Tirpitz's mouth fascinated Hood more than the story. Did she detect the barest trace of _amusement_ on the battleship's face? Whatever it was, if anything at all, came and went in less than a blink.

"I never identified myself as an officer," Rodes mused, shrugging his massive shoulders. "If I had, they might have backed down and straightened out. I can't say for sure why I didn't, really. Maybe I _wanted_ them to give me a reason to beat wholesale ass. Either way, they started in on telling me that dirt-blood lovers weren't welcome in _their_ bar, and that I must be some sort of traitor. Oh, and my favorite, that I didn't understand the sacrifices of the troops who went overseas." The captain offered them a bitter chuckle, and Hood wagered he gave those enlisted goons the same one.

"I tried to reason with them at first. I tried to explain that all soldiers are just following orders and fighting for their homelands. Blaming one man for the actions of his leaders is just stupid and changes nothing." Rodes paused to sigh. "Then one of them grabbed me by the collar, and all bets were off. I think I must have hit him three times in the face before he even knew I punched him the first time. I finished making mashed potatoes out two more of the group before some of their buddies jumped in from a different table. A few of the regulars who knew me well enough jumped in on my side. That's when it went from a fight to a brawl."

Despite the odds and the 'brawl' in question, Hood noticed that Rodes lacked any obvious signs of having been in a fight with the exception of his purple-blue knuckles. She recalled the desk officer making a remark about keeping Rodes in solitary confinement for the sake of the other prisoners.

"When the police showed up to break up the fight, one of the enlisted boys with the original group told the police sergeant that I had started a fight over some Ironblood soldier," said Rodes. "The sergeant came over to me and asked why I started kicking up trouble over some dirt-blood scumbag. He said some other things, too, but I was too annoyed and high on adrenaline to remember. I jawed him like I did the first guy, and dropped the other two officers before they could get enthusiastic with their weapons. Then the brawl started all over. I told Besser to make his way out during the commotion, and as far as I can tell, he listened."

Rodes shrugged again. He didn't seem the least bit remorseful about his actions. In fact, he seemed to feel quite proud of them. He took out the trash and reminded a few self-righteous bigots that hiding behind words cannot protect you from those who dare.

"I see," said Tirptiz, closing her eyes and nodding her head. "Thank you, Captain Rodes." He nodded back at her. The Ironblood battleship left it ambiguous as to what she thanked him for. The explanation? The intervention on behalf of her countryman? Perhaps both?

"Well," said Hood, interjecting before the uncomfortable silence could take hold again. "I believe that we have all we need. If you are amenable, Captain Rodes, we would like to have you accompany us back to the Global Postwar Coalition's Joint Fleet Port. The Joint Fleet commander has a commission offer for you." Rodes's brow arched. It occurred to Hood that he might never have expected their interview to end with a job offer.

"Alright, well," said Rodes, unwilling to commit to a responsibility he knew nothing about. "I'll at least hear what your commander has to say."

Hood smiled. What an awful day. However, despite the hurdles and inconveniences, she accomplished her mission. At the very least, she could hang her hat on the satisfaction of a job well done.


	4. Paradigm Shift

**Interlude 01**

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/Loading transcription algorithm…

/Anchoring to exchange…

/Creating new report directory…

/-X:\Encrypted\Subroutine_Logs\Personal_Data_Repo\

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/Identifying respondents…

/Tagging entries…

/Transcribing…

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/-[Conv-23dr4190 || Begin]

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/OBSERVER α: This data, it cannot be accurate.

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/TESTER ß: Are you examining the collection from the most recent simulation rerun?

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/OBSERVER α: No. Look at the numbers logged on the control function.

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/[Transcription note: conversational pause detected]

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/TESTER ß: That's… no. It's impossible. We remain in perfect control of all variables!

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/OBSERVER α: Not all of them, apparently. Look, deviated outcomes are multiplying at an accelerated rate.

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/TESTER ß: It is supposed to be the _control_ function! We midlined all factors to keep it consistent and removed all potential disruption factors! How is this happening?

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/OBSERVER α: I do not know.

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/TESTER ß: Did a Pawn awaken?

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/OBSERVER α: Of course not. That is easy enough to see in the data. What is happening here is much more subtle.

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/TESTER ß: The Creator will be displeased…

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/[Transcription note: conversational pause detected]

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/OBSERVER α: How do you know that this is not the Creator's will?

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/-[Conv-23dr4190 || End]

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/Saving…

/Connection terminated

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_Infinite spaces_

_An illusion of control_

_Wherein lies evolve_

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**Chapter 4:** Paradigm Shift

"Attention all aircraft." Enterprise spoke aloud, and her words carried to the pilots of the planes waiting on the subspace flight deck of her riggings. "For this training exercise, you will be engaging remote controlled enemy aircraft and dummy production warship targets. Your objective is to sink all enemy warships using dive-bombing maneuvers."

A rumble of thunder rolled across the dark ocean waves, and the Eagle Union carrier looked up at the sky. The remote controlled aircraft were little better than oversized toys in the best of circumstances-light airframes retrofitted with wireless motor control surfaces and a camera feed. Enterprise doubted they would hold up very well in the storm. She just hoped that none of them lost control and clipped her pilots.

"The enemy aircraft will not be armed, but the remote pilots will be checking the video feed and marking down the identifiers of any aircraft they have a viable shot on," said Enterprise, going on with the pre-launch briefing. "The longer it takes for each squadron to accomplish their objectives, the more enemy aircraft will appear. That is all. Squadron leaders, report readiness once your elements are prepared."

Fifty meters off to her starboard side, Ark Royal finished briefing her own pilots. The Royal Navy carrier glanced over at Enterprise and reached up to key her radio.

"Enterprise, Is everything prepared on your end?" Ark asked, her voice crackling on the radio with a tinny quality.

"Just waiting on my squadron leaders to report ready," said Enterprise.

"Very good, I am waiting on my squadron leads as well," said Ark. The Eagle Union carrier girl found that Ark Royal could cut an imposing figure when she knuckled down and settled into a more serious disposition. From what Enterprise observed, many of the other ship girls seemed not to give her much thought. While some of Ark's tendencies leaned toward disconcerting, Enterprise never found that to be a worthwhile reason to doubt her. Perhaps that mutual respect is what caused the pair to get along so well in the first place. Of all the ship girls in the Joint Fleet, Ark Royal stood as one very few whom Enterprise considered a friend.

"Victor Able dash One Able, designated 'Hawk Squadron'. We're ready and on standby." The voice of one of her squadron leaders broke into Enterprise's earpiece.

"Victor Able dash Four Easy, 'Vulture Squadron'. All set and ready for the deck.

"Victor Able dash Two Baker, taking 'Owl Squadron' designation. On standby for go-ahead."

"My squadrons are ready for takeoff," said Enterprise over the radio.

"We shall follow your lead," said Ark. She offered her Eagle Union counterpart a deep bow at the waist, sweeping the ocean surface with the fingertips as she brought an arm across her chest. Enterprise resisted the urge to smile at Ark's theatrics-she needed to stay focused.

Enterprise raised her hand and the subspace portal to her riggings appeared in the sky above her. A dull thump depressed the surface of the water below it as the concussive force of the opening dissipated through the atmosphere.

"All squadrons, you are cleared for takeoff," the Eagle Union carrier announced. "Hawk Squadron first, Owl last."

A series of affirmative responses passed across the radio channel, and fighters streamed out from the portal one after another. The lead aircraft from Hawk Squadron banked left allowing time for the rest of their squadron to leave the deck and assume formation. Vulture's leader emerged from the portal next, banking right as Hawk Squadron assembled and vacated the immediate airspace. Owl Squadron's leader emerged last, aircraft veering hard left to allow plenty of space for the trailing Hawks.

The Eagle Union carrier kept her radio patched in to each of the individual squadron bands as well as the one she shared with Ark Royal. She listened to their intra-squadron chatter with a swell of satisfaction as the more experienced pilots coached their less experienced counterparts.

"Hawk-Eight, keep less space between you and your wingman, over." said one of the other Hawk pilots.

"Copy that. Hawk-Eight closing gap, over."

"Vulture-Five, drop your altitude to angels four. You're too high up on the formation wing, over."

"Understood. Vulture-five confirming altitude adjustment, angels four, over."

"Hawk-Nine, pull back on that throttle. Make sure your speed matches the formation."

"Roger. Hawk-Nine dropping airspeed, over."

"Owl-Eleven, raise your flaps. They're still out from takeoff, stay focused."

"Copy that. Owl-Eleven should have those flaps up now. Sorry, Owl-One. Just the jitters."

"Good copy, Owl-Eleven. We were all rookies once, over."

Once all three of the squadrons formed up into their respective formations, Ark Royal gave her pilots the go-ahead for takeoff. Unlike Enterprise's squadrons, Ark Royal's pilots flew Typhoon Mk IB fighter-bombers. The Typhoon excelled at low-altitude interception roles, and it complimented the F4U well in that regard. Between the Typhoons and the Corsairs, the training force would have solid air coverage.

"All Enterprise squadrons, the Ark Royal squadrons are airborne," the Eagle Union carrier announced over the radio. "Begin your ascent and leave the low altitude interception to the Typhoons. Proceed to target area and commence operations."

The squadron leaders responded in the affirmative, and Enterprise watched as the aircraft pitched upward and began to climb.

"Let's go, Ark," said Enterprise, keying the button controlling her radio broadcasting band. "We'll have to head directly for the target zone while they move to their approach vector so we don't miss the start of the exercise."

The pair of carrier girls met up before skating across the waves towards where the dummy ships waited at anchor. Forks of lightning arced across the surface of the clouds, strobing flashes of blue-white reflected on the water below. As much as Enterprise disliked training in such risky weather, she understood the need for the Joint Fleet to be prepared to fight in any circumstance. Weather conditions did little to affect the Sirens or their forces which put the Joint Fleet at a distinct disadvantage. Only by training to operate in the harshest situations could they hope to meet the enemy on even footing.

Stipulations on squadron checkpoints kept the formations away from the target area long enough for Enterprise and Ark Royal to come within observation distance of the exercise. By the time the buzz of the approaching aircraft engines reached their notice, both carriers waited on the outside of the danger zone on a floating platform that provided them some elevation for a better vantage.

"I see the Typhoons coming in low over the waves," Enterprise said, pointing downrange toward the low-flying aircraft. If not for the high-crested waves and the windy gales, they might have flown even lower. Rain and ocean spray sluiced from the wings and fuselage leaving a trail of misty condensation in their wake. "I'm not seeing the Corsairs yet."

"It is likely that they are above the clouds waiting for the remote controlled fighters to engage the Typhoons," Ark reasoned, pointing toward the encroaching cloud of remote controlled aircraft. "It is the tactful thing to do, after all. The drones will have lost all their kinetic energy fighting at low altitude, and the Corsairs can climb with greater ease than most. Diving on the enemy from surprise is a most suitable maneuver considering the cloud cover."

Enterprise nodded in agreement, crossing her arms and watching the veil of thunderheads obscuring the sky above. Veteran pilots occupied the squadron leader roles, and no doubt they reached the same conclusion as Ark.

The two opposing forces met, and the formations broke apart into a frenzied cluster of dogfighting pairs. Starburst flashes of white-orange lit the Typhoon fighters' wings, their 20mm Hispano cannons offering quite the spectacle in the dim light of the stormy sky. Searing white lines stitched the sky as tracer rounds searched out their targets, the pilots using the visual aid to adjust their fire.

Remote controlled planes dove and rolled through the Typhoons. While they lacked the versatility or swift response capabilities of actual pilots, the remote controlled craft were very light-even lighter still when considering their lack of ammo and armaments. The unmanned aircraft managed very tight turns with gravitational forces that would cause a human pilot to go unconscious. Such an advantage made it just difficult enough for the human pilots to keep the remote-operated aircraft off their tails.

An explosion blossomed in the air above the waves. Shrapnel trailing oily black smoke created the illusion of dark flower petals opening to the rain. One of the cannon rounds found a fuel tank, it seemed. Several other remote controlled planes careened down into the ocean with smoke trailing behind them, some missing wings or torn in half across the fuselage. They crashed into the water's surface, and the pounding waves swallowed them.

Just when Enterprise started to wonder where her squadrons were, the formations of inverted gull wing fighters broke from the clouds at a steep dive. The scream of their engines carried over the roaring wind, and the first wave of dive bombing attackers released their payload. Enterprise picked up their chatter on the radio, all three squadron bands picked up on her multi-band radio. Each squadron leader directed their pilots, and the more experienced veterans coached the rookies.

Explosions ripped through the air, and towering columns of smoke and fire sent waves of heat radiating all the way out to Enterprise. Radio chatter confirmed several good hits on the target ships, two of which started to list to one side. Hawk Squadron peeled off to rearm while Vulture began their bombing run and Owl took up the support role. The remote controlled planes took notice of the new combatants, and a detachment broke away from the Typhoons to engage the dive bombers. Reinforcements for the defending forces swooped in, passing over the observing carrier girls and banking towards the Corsair squadrons.

"Who's that pilot in the Corsair, there?" Ark asked, her one visible eye narrowed at the cloud of zooming aircraft. She uncrossed her arms and pointed towards the plane in question. Enterprise traced the line with her eyes to an aircraft marked with a Northern Parliament flag on the tail and a skull on the nose.

"_That_ is the pilot the Commander assigned to me," Enterprise said, her voice more sour than she intended. Ark's electric blue eye flicked towards the Eagle Union carrier, watching her sidelong through the part in her bangs. It looked to Enterprise as if her friend were weighing the options on whether or not to speak her mind. "Why do you ask?" Enterprise said, giving Ark some nonspecific encouragement to come forward with her thoughts. She wanted to hear Ark's criticisms about Nemtsev. In fact, Enterprise welcomed anything she might use when confronting the Commander after training concluded.

"They are quite, well, _exceptional_," Ark said, sounding hesitant to offer such a contrary opinion to her friend's conviction.

The Eagle Union woman's eyebrows shot up, her mouth parted slightly as her jaw sagged with disbelief. Ark Royal did not mince words when it came to assessing others' performances. Ever since the sinking of Glorious and her escorts during the war-which Enterprise believed Ark took personal responsibility for-Ark took it upon herself to be painfully honest with everyone about their shortcomings. It staggered Enterprise hear the woman describe Nemtsev as "exceptional."

"Just watch for a moment," Ark said, responding the incredulity on Enterprise's face before it could become words. Enterprise turned her gaze back to the sky, albeit reluctantly.

Nemtsev circled above the fray, skimming the clouds with his wingtip as he banked. Then, he cranked back on the throttle and dove. Enterprise followed his trajectory and spotted the pair of remote controlled fighters chasing after one of the Vulture Squadron Corsairs trying to line up a dive bombing vector. Nemtsev fired a short burst from the Corsair's 12.7mm machine guns, zooming past the target in a high-side gun pass before pulling back on the stick and ramming the throttle back to full.

The remote controlled fighter strafed in Nemtsev's attack belched black smoke, and its nose pitched down. It dropped from the sky and fell into the ocean as Nemtsev brought his corsair up into a half-loop and rolled to bring it back to proper orientation. Flying back over the imperilled Vulture Squadron dive bomber, Nemtsev dove a second time on the second trailing remote controlled fighter. Most pilots considered diving on a target moving towards them to be a very dangerous maneuver, though a potentially rewarding one. A high-angle dive on an approaching enemy allowed the diving aircraft to fire into the engine and cockpit of the enemy plane.

Nemtsev led his target and the six machine guns chattered for another short burst. Red and white tracers drew angry glowing lines in the air. The front of the remote controlled craft disintegrated like wet tissue paper, and it began to spiral out of control to the sea below. Without wasting any energy from his dive, Nemtsev pulled up and banked to the left. Pulling up onto the tail of another remote controlled fighter, he lined up a shot and sprayed it down with 12.7mm rounds. A wing tore free, spars snapping, and Nemtsev disengaged from pursuit, Still maintaining enough energy from his previous dive, the Northern Parliament pilot angled the Corsair's nose up and climbed back up towards the clouds. The whole encounter could not have lasted more than a minute.

"Do you understand my point now?" Ark asked, turning back to Enterprise.

As much as she didn't want to admit it, Enterprise _did_ understand. Despite her concerns about his ability to communicate, she could not deny Nemtsev's skills as an aviator. He moved like a bird of prey, but not in the traditional manner. Most people imagined hawks or eagles as the apex airborne hunters. Enterprise, however, recognized that the squadron's namesake matched the Northern Parliament pilot quite well. Owls were notoriously quiet flyers, swooping in on their prey and snatching them up without making a sound. With powerful wings, large talons, and unparalleled senses, Owls ruled the night skies second to none.

"What's the pilot's name?" Ark asked, arching an amused eyebrow at the pensive expression on Enterprise's face. The Eagle Union woman wiped the look off of her face to deny her friend any further satisfaction.

"Matvei Nemtsev," said Enterprise in a flat, unamused tone. She adjusted her cap, pulling the brim down over her brow. Ark began to chuckle to herself which only exacerbated Enterprise's embarrassment and annoyance. "_What_?" She demanded, refusing to look over at Ark. Instead, she kept her gaze fixed on the planes in the distance trying to focus on each squadron as a whole.

"Enterprise, Matvei Nemtsev is the Allied ace of aces from the war!" Ark exclaimed, still laughing. Enterprise didn't know if she laughed at her expense, or because the situation tickled her smug sense of humor. "He shot down sixty-two aircraft despite only being cleared to fly halfway through the war _and_ while piloting an inferior fighter. On top of that, he is one of one of the only pilots to have shot down an Ironblood ME 262 jet fighter-_and_ he accomplished _that_ in a propeller fighter."

That explained why Enterprise found Nemtsev's name familiar. How did she fail to connect the dots? A fresh wave of embarrassment crept into her cheeks, redding them as Ark snickered at her side. As the most decorated ship of the war _and _an aircraft carrier, Enterprise chided herself for not recognizing the top Allied ace by name.

"He might be far from the top of the war's all-time ace list, but considering his circumstances it is truly an impressive feat," said Ark in a tone as impressed as her words implied. The pair watched as Nemtsev struck again and again, picking off remote controlled fighters as they chased the dive bombers from other squadrons. He focused on removing the threats to his fellow pilots first and pushed opportunistic attacks second.

Despite the high winds and driving rains, Nemtsev's Corsair weaved through the sky like a dancer on stage. Enterprise heard others describe someone as "a duck in water" or "a bird on the wing", but she never understood the full breadth of the comparison until then.

"It bothers me when the Commander is so certain that he's right," Enterprise said, pulling out the note Bowyer passed her on behalf of the Commander.

"Is he not?"

Enterprise read over the two simple words followed by a signature:

"Trust me.

Sincerely,

Commander"

A sigh slipped past the carrier's pursed lips. Of _course_ he was right, _that _is what upset her. The Commander was _always_ right. She would follow him through the deepest circle of hell if he asked her, but his confidence-especially in the face of her skepticism-never failed to annoy her. Perhaps Enterprise's frustration stemmed from her own desire to be so certain, so _convicted_, about anything. She used to think that her idealistic fervor toward bringing about world peace filled that place of yearning in her heart. However, after the war, and in the face of the Siren threat, Enterprise felt that a peaceful future might forever exceed her grasp.

"We'll see," said Enterprise, unwilling to give in to Ark's teasing. She narrowed her eyes and scanned the swarm of aircraft buzzing through the storm for Nemtsev's. A flash of lightning revealed the Northern Parliament tail mark on a Corsair circling the Hawk Squadron dive bombers returning with fresh ordinance underwing. Nemtsev watched over them from above as he navigated the complicated crosswinds generated by the storm.

Enterprise noticed Ark studying her out of the corner of her eye, but the Eagle Union woman pretended not to notice. She knew that the Royal Navy carrier sought a gauge on how her counterpart felt, but Enterprise didn't know any better than Ark. Judging a pilot on their training performance made as much sense as judging the taste of a gourmet desert by how it looked in the display case. Still, something about the ease and grace with which Nemtsev handled his aircraft in a raging storm made it difficult to remain unimpressed.

"We'll see," Enterprise repeated, crossing her arms. A fresh cacophony of explosions rippled across the ocean as the resupplied Hawk Squadron dive bombers made their attack run, their formation uninhibited by enemy fighters. Nemtsev's Corsair zipped back into the clouds, two of Hawk's would-be interceptors crashing into the ocean below.

*;*;*

The storm subsided late that morning, and the noontime sun beat down on the base as if trying to make up for lost time. Takao walked down the main thoroughfare and regarded the rippling waves of heat that radiated from the asphalt with distaste. She felt deep gratitude toward whoever it had been that saw fit to provide her and her sisters with white uniforms. Other ships who favored dark clothing, those such as Shiranui, would no doubt suffer if they dared set foot outside.

Takao kept all of her silken black hair drawn back into a ponytail as opposed to her usual, more styled, hairdo. Keeping the dark locks off of her face, ears, and neck helped to keep the heat at bay. Her hair absorbed far too much heat in the direct sunlight to leave any of it down. With her straight-backed strut, a hand resting on the hilt of her sword, and her naturally severe expression, Takao cut an imposing samurai-like figure.

Earlier that morning, Takao received orders to report in at the Commander's office. Knowing full well that she did nothing to merit reprimand, she surmised that he must have a task for her. The cruiser woman felt a swell of pride knowing that their Commander picked her for an important task. Takao worked or trained at all times, and a task personally entrusted to her by the Commander felt like recognition of all her efforts.

Since the end of the world war, Takao pushed herself to exceed the other ship girls in every conceivable way. Most wrote off her borderline-obsessive behavior as competitiveness or adherence to some personal code. The truth, as it happens, was far simpler: _shame _is what drove Takao. Despite the Crimson Axis abuse of Siren power forming the foundation of the conflict, they still lost the war. Her enemies defeated her-_dishonored_ her. If Takao couldn't prevail against comparable adversaries, how could she ever hope to defeat the Sirens? No. She would push her limits every day, getting stronger, faster, and smarter, until she could defeat them.

Imagine her excitement when the Commander informed her that she would be placed in command of her own small production task unit. The task unit consisted of two production destroyers and one production heavy cruiser. In just a few minutes, a new Joint Fleet officer would be arriving to take command of the task unit's heavy cruiser and to act as Takao's executive officer.

The Sakura woman arrived at the main gate fifteen minutes before the estimated arrival time of Dorian Reese, and despite the heat, she waited outside on the walkway. With one hand on her hip and the other on the hilt of her sword, Takao squinted against the bright sunlight and watched down the bridge leading to the mainland.

An old WC series 4WD jeep rumbled down the road right on time. Takao had expected Reese to be delivered in a nicer vehicle. Maybe one of the civilian sedans, or even one of the luxury four-wheel drive trucks that always transported the Admiralty Board. At the _very_ least she expected a vehicle with working air conditioning and a suspension.

One of the gate guards swiped an access key across a scanner inside the guard house. The gate separated down the middle and rolled out of the way along a thick metal track laid into the pavement. Takao watched the jeep roll through the gate and stop inside the white box painted on the asphalt, the words 'Drop-Off Zone Only' stenciled along the perimeter of each side in large block print.

The jeep's passenger side door swung open and a man clad in an Eagle Union officer's uniform swung himself out of the vehicle. He turned back around before Takao got a look at his face and reached into the back seat of the jeep for an olive drab duffel bag. Slinging the strap over his shoulder, he said something to the jeep driver and offered a wave. The jeep pulled away from the drop-off zone and made a U-turn, heading back through the gate and out onto the bridge.

Turning around to face Takao, she realized that he stood at least half a head taller than her-maybe more. A pair of large aviator style sunglasses with darkly tinted lenses obscured his eyes and even his eyebrows. He sported a winning smile that Takao _swore_ gleamed in the sunlight like polished porcelain. The smile bunched up at his cheeks causing obvious dimples on both sides of his face. His high cheekbones and narrow chin _should_ have given him a sharp appearance, but a button nose and full lips softened his edges. The apples of his cheeks rounded out when he smiled, too. If Takao were another woman, she might have swooned.

When he noticed Takao standing there, the Eagle Union officer plucked the officer's cap from his head and tucked it under his arm.

"Good morning," Takao said, greeting him with a tone of measured professionalism. "I am Takao of the Sakura Empire, heavy cruiser of the Global Postwar Collective Joint Fleet. You must be Captain Dorian Reese."

"That would be me," he said, smiling even wider. "The new rank is going to take a bit of getting used to, though." Takao hadn't thought it possible for him to smile wider. She half expected his mouth to burst open at the corners like the seams of a worn out sweater stretched beyond their limits. "Takao, is it? It's nice to meet you. I'd shake your hand, but I'm worried you might lop it off." Reese gestured to the sword on her hip and chuckled. Takao maintained her deadpan. She didn't remove her hand from the sword hilt, either.

"Oookay then," said Reese, his smile faltering when the Sakura woman didn't react. It never faded, though, and after a moment it came back at full force. "So, unless you're here to arbitrarily cut me down in the street, should I assume you're the welcome wagon?" Takao never heard the term 'welcome wagon' before, but she thought she understood his meaning.

"I am the commanding officer of Task Unit 202," said the Sakura cruiser. Despite having just met Reese, Takao found him somewhat irritating. His open disposition and easygoing behavior rubbed her the wrong way. "You've been assigned to my task unit and will be acting as my executive officer." He blinked at her, surprised at the straightforwardness of her introduction-or maybe just surprised at her unflinching professionalism.

"Ah, alright," said Reese. He shrugged the strap of his duffel bag a little higher on his shoulder. "So, where's my new ship?" The officer grinned, and Takao narrowed her eyes at him. She expected him to straighten up and recognize her authority, but Reese appeared otherwise unfazed. Takao wondered if maybe she mislabeled him. "Easygoing" didn't quite capture it. Enthusiastic, maybe? That felt a bit closer, but his brand of enthusiasm still annoyed her; it came across as rash and undisciplined.

"Your new command is the USS Chicago 13-Production," Takao said, trying to hide the distaste in her tone. The Commander expected her to work with _this_ man? He looked like a frat boy stuffed into an officer uniform. She needed someone who respected authority, not some hot shot who preferred what she heard some Eagle Union staff refer to as a "buddy-buddy" relationship. "The vessel is a Baltimore-class heavy cruiser constructed by the Eagle Union." Reese gave a low whistle nodding in approval.

"Fast and heavily armed," Reese said, giving Takao a thumbs-up. "I like it."

"Your tastes were not considered during the ship selection process," Takao said, her face threatening descent into a full scowl. "Examination of your command style combined with the needs of the Task Unit and the larger Task Force indicated that a Baltimore-class vessel would best serve the needs of the fleet."

"Do you always take everything so literally, ma'am?" Reese's smile faltered again, but never quite disappeared.

"Yes," Takao said in a flat tone with a matching deadpan expression. She turned on her heel and started back towards the Port's administration buildings. "There is a great deal of work to be done. Let's get started." Her tone gave more of a "let's get this over with" impression, but she made no effort to amend it.

Takao planned on going to speak with the Commander as soon as she finished processing Captain Reese's paperwork. There must have been a mistake. The Commander promised Takao a hero. Heroes stood straight, behaved as professionals, and showed respect-at least in _her _mind. No, she already decided; Dorian Reese was no hero.

*;*;*

"Please, head inside," said Matchless, swiping her keycard across the card reader embedded in the doorframe. A soft click sounded when the indicator light on the reader flashed green, and the destroyer girl pulled open the door to the Commander's office. Matchless offered her practiced professional smile to the frightening man towering over her. To the much smaller ship girl, the man looked like a giant carved from solid stone.

"Thanks," the man said in a deep, rumbling voice. He stepped through the door Matchless held open for him. The smile on her face melted away once he passed by, the destroyer girl slipping inside after him and closing the door. She struggled with her confidence in the best of circumstances, so the intimidating man's fierce face provided a real test of her progress. To her credit, Matchless managed to keep up her facade all the way from the lobby to the Commander's office.

The Commander stood at the window behind his desk peering out through the blinds at the Port below. A coffee mug steamed in his right hand, coils of hazy white rising from its hot contents. Matchless failed to understand how _anyone_ could want a hot beverage on such a sweltering day. Even in the Commander's air conditioned office the thermostat indicated temperatures just above seventy degrees Fahrenheit.

"Captain Rodes, welcome to the Joint Fleet Port," said the Commander, turning around to face them. "It's an honor to meet such a decorated veteran in person." A warm smile lit the Commander's features like the horizon's glow just before sunrise. Matchless thought she detected genuine admiration there; not the kind of bolstering pride one felt when their subordinates did well, but the kind with mutual respect seasoned by genuine gratitude.

"Thanks," said Rodes with a hint of surprised distaste. His nose crinkled as if he caught a whiff of something unpleasant. "But I'm not really one for that mutual ego-stroking thing." Matchless sucked in a sharp breath, violet eyes wide and shining as if Rodes cast his offense at _her_ instead of the Commander. Rather than his usual sly, smirking defiance, the Commander laughed.

"I think you'll find I don't pay insincere compliments, Captain," the Commander said, grinning.

"Oh?" Rodes arched a brow, uncertain how to respond. Matchless, still trying to catch up to an understanding of the exchange, thought that Rodes might be feeling out of his element for the first time in a long while. He struck her as the type used to having the upper hand.

"A lot of soldiers owe you their lives," said the Commander. "I need the best of the best, and it is my belief that you are the officer I need to lead them." He took a sip from his coffee mug then set it down on his desk. Gesturing for Rodes to take a seat, the Commander settled into his chair.

"Last time I checked, infantry doesn't do so well going toe-to-toe with warships," Rodes said, dropping into one of the leather chairs facing the desk. He braced his forearms on his knees and leaned forward, curious despite his contrary inflection.

"You're right," said the Commander, propping his arms up on his elbows and lacing his fingers together. "Instead, I want you to handle the Siren ground forces." Matchless watched the Commander's eyes crinkle at the corners; they always crinkled at the corners when his smile shifted from pleasant to devious.

Rodes' brow furrowed, a deep fault line forming where they met above the bridge of his nose. Matchless thought she saw the gears turning inside his head. His eyes read the Commander's features like a book, searching line by line for signs of disingenuity. Matchless shifted her weight from one foot to the other, then back again. Every moment the silence lingered pulled the coil of anxiety in her belly tighter.

"I'm waiting for the punchline," said Rodes, the look of incredulity still pressing deep lines into his face.

"No punchline," the Commander said, offering his guest an easy shrug. "For whatever reason, the Sirens have begun creating large-scale installations. Some are located on islands, others are fortress-like structures built on the ocean surface like oil rigs. These facilities are guarded by infantry-type Siren units that we've never encountered before."

"I guess that makes sense," Rodes said, reaching up to scratch at his bearded chin. "Sirens are warship-scale in firepower. They would tear apart their own facility trying to keep it secure in the event of an attack." The Commander nodded and smiled like a teacher whose student just provided the textbook answer.

"So, what do you say, Captain Rodes?" The Commander asked. From the gleam in his eye, however, Matchless saw he already knew the answer.

"Can't say I'm not curious," said Rodes, sitting back in his chair and propping his elbows up on the armrests. "That in and of itself is enough reason for me to take you up on the offer, I think." The grizzled veteran arched his brow and pursed his lips. "But if I am going to do this right, I am going to need a few things." Matchless lifted her eyebrows, unused to anyone trying to haggle with the Commander.

"I had a feeling you might say that," the Commander said, and his smile broadened so much that it caused crinkles to form at the corners of his eyes. "Tell me, what do you need, Captain?"


	5. The Shark's First Dance

**Author's Note:** I must apologize for how long this took to write. Initially, I planned to have this be a short chapter to get what I had in my head down on paper. Instead, it turned into a horrible mess in which I had to wrestle with my thoughts and my motivation to get the chapter down on paper. In the end it, I ended up writing the longest chapter yet. After such a long delay in putting out new content, I decided to do a quick self-edit before uploading in posting. As such, I apologize for any errors in grammar or continuity. I would welcome a private message from anyone who would like to point out such errors to me so that I might fix them in a timely fashion. Otherwise, I will go through and make more detailed edits as soon as I have a moment. Now, without any further delay, please enjoy:

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..

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_Fighting to survive_

_Mantra of the deluded_

_Paradox of peace_

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**Chapter 5**: The Shark's First Dance

Captain Reese traced gentle fingers along the top of a console occupying the _13-Chicago_'s bridge. From the moment he set eyes on the production model _Baltimore_-class heavy cruiser, Reese loved it. Three turret mounts of three Mark 15 8"/55 caliber guns, six twin mounts housing two 5"/38 caliber guns, twelve nests of quadruple Bofors 40 mm cannons, and twenty-eight Oerlikon 20 mm cannons all packed onto a heavily armored vessel capable of 33 knots. Swift and powerful, the _13-Chicago_ would dance to any tune her captain played.

"We're coming up on the hour, captain," the gravelly voice belonging to Dorian's communications officer pulled the young captain's attention away from appreciating his vessel. Of all the bridge officers, Lieutenant Junior Grade James Pond was the oldest by over a decade. Pond's short-cropped silver hair betrayed his post-middle age, but his dark brown eyes still shone with youthful wit. The raspy quality of his voice betrayed his pack-a-day smoking habit, though Dorian never spotted the man with a cigarette clamped in his teeth. More often than not, Captain Reese pondered how such a seasoned vet managed never to advance beyond Lieutenant Junior Grade.

"Thanks, Mister Pond," said Reese. In his former command, he used to refer to most of his officers by rank. The officers under his command on _13-Chicago_, however, consisted almost exclusively of various grades of lieutenant. Rather than address each officer by their long ranks, Dorian opted for the simpler "mister" or "miss"-one "missus" in the case of his Chief of Engineering. "Why don't you get us patched through to our Task Unit lead so we can report in?"

"Aye, Captain."

Dorian strolled across the deck to stand beside Pond as he tuned the communications system. Waiting for his communications officer to prepare contact with Takao, Dorian glanced around at the other members of his bridge crew.

1st Lieutenant Chi Anand stood at the helm, hands set on the controls. He gazed out the bridge's bow-facing windshields, his eyes narrowed in sharp focus on the horizon. Premature crow's feet lined the deep brown skin around his eyes from constant squinting. Similar lines marked the corner of Anand's mouth; a result of the man's omnipresent scowl.

Lieutenant Junior Grade Danika Innovitch stood over her control station surveying the summary information fed in by all of _13-Chicago_'s weapon telemetry. She kept her hands planted flat on the console, fingers splayed, as she peered down at the continuous scroll of refreshing data. Miss Innovitch only ever sat down when she needed to perform her duties as the CIC gunnery liaison officer. Reaching up with one hand, she tucked a stray lock of sable hair behind her ear.

A very short young man sat at the radar officer's station, one hand pressed into the headset cup over his left ear. Lieutenant Junior Grade Simon Kopfer, the youngest officer on the bridge, focused on his work with great intent. Lauded by his trainers in handwritten letters Reese found clipped in Kopfer's personnel file, the captain suspected that the young man might have excelled at anything he chose to focus on. Kopfer, however, loved the radar station and all that went into operating it. Single-minded, and rather socially awkward outside the confines of duty, Reese developed a soft spot for the young man over the hours and hours spent training with him on the _13-Chicago_.

"We're on the working band, captain," said Pond, and Reese returned his attention to the communications officer.

"Very good." Reese nodded once and held out his hand towards Pond. "If you'd be so kind, hand me the handset there, would you?" Mr. Pond reached up and plucked the comms handset from its cradle and placed it in Dorian's hand. Resse raised the handset to his mouth and glanced down at Pond who toggled a switch and offered a thumbs-up. Keying the broadcast button on the side, Captain Reese spoke into the handset. "Non-prod Takao, Takao, Takao this is One-Three Chicago, over."

"One-Three Chicago, this is Takao, over." Takao's voice crackled over the local speaker mounted to the communications console.

"This is One-Three Chicago, we're making our hourly check-in, over," said Reese, keying the radio handset again. A small, amused smile threatened the corners of his mouth at the sound of Takao's voice. For whatever reason the Sakura cruiser seemed to despise his every living breath. Even on the radio, the sound quality rendered tinny and distorted by range, she couldn't mask the displeasure of having to speak with him. Dorian, on the other hand, always spoke to Takao with the utmost respect, though only because he knew it really got under her skin. The more unkindness or indifference she showed him, the kinder and more playful he treated her. Oh, how Reese _relished _her flustered chagrin.

"This is Takao, roger. One-Three Chicago, report your current heading and speed, over." The smile waiting patiently for its opportunity bloomed across Dorian's face, he could have sworn he heard her sigh. Turning his head towards the navigation station, Reese scanned the display and keyed the handset.

"This is One-Three Chicago, Element Bravo moving along heading Two-Eight-Nine at fifteen knots. We're on course for rally point Twelve-Tango, over."

"This is Takao, roger. One-Three Chicago, Element Bravo will hold current speed and course, over."

"This is One-Three Chicago, roger that. Oh-Nine Akigumo, did you copy those orders? Over."

Dorian glanced over at the navigation station again. A blue marker in the middle of the display indicated the One-Three Chicago while a second blue marker labeled "_09-Akigumo_" followed roughly two hundred and fifty meters at two points broad on the port quarter. The _09-Akigumo_, commanded by Commander Seiki Yamatoru, was the ninth production model of the Kagerō-class destroyer line. Reese's _13-Chicago_ and Yatomaru's _09-Akigumo_ made up Element Bravo while another cruiser and destroyer made up Element Alpha. The two elements guarded the flanks of the Main Element. All the while, Elements Alpha and Bravo made wide sweeps outward from the larger force at intervals to get a better look at the surrounding waters.

"This is Oh-Nine Akigumo, copy that: hold speed and course, over." Commander Yamatoru's voice broke in over the radio with far greater clarity than Takao's. He spoke in a thick sakuran accent, but took great pains to enunciate the foreign words clearly.

"This is One-Three Chicago, roger. Takao, Element Bravo will check in again at the next hundred, out." Dorian released the broadcast button and passed the handset back to Pond. The older man plucked it from his captain's hand without looking and dropped it back into the cradle where it belonged.

Since Captain Resse's first training exercise in Takao's Task Unit, Takao made it very clear that she preferred Commander Yamatoru to Reese. Without any actual insider information on the decisions that led to his commission, Dorian could only speculate that Takao wanted Yamatoru to have the position Reese filled. The pair of them might as well have been siblings, each as inflexible and cold as winter steel. The Sakura cruiser went around him to Yamatoru as often as she could manage. For example, confirming her orders with Yamatoru to keep Reese and his "incompetence" in line.

"Captain, I've got unknown contacts at the edge of radar range bearing two-eight-four!" Lieutenant Kopfer's voice stopped Reese on his way back to the captain's chair. Dorian spun on his heel and crossed the distance to the radar station in three long strides. Kopfer pointed to the pulsing blips on the radar scope, at first a group of three, then five, then eight. "Unknown contacts moving our way, sir. Looks like an intercept course." The young officer paused and leaned in closer towards the screen. "Looks like mixed surface vessels, no aircraft."

"Mister Pond, get our eyes on the wings to identify those targets," Dorian ordered. Stepping back from the radar console, he moved back to the comms station and plucked the handset he just used to contact Takao. While Pond radioed out to the observation teams, Dorian adjusted the dials on the comms unit to make a localized broadcast to the _09-Akigumo_.

"Oh-Nine Akigumo, Oh-Nine Akigumo, Oh-Nine Akigumo, this is One-Three Chicago, over." Dorian turned to look out to sea in the direction of the radar contacts. Somewhere out there, hiding just behind the curvature of the earth, unknown danger cut through the dark ocean waves towards Element Bravo. Dorian felt it in his bones; like a healed fracture he ached in anticipation of the coming storm.

"One-Three Chicago, this is Oh-Nine Akigumo, over," said Yamatoru, his voice crackling over the speaker after a brief delay. Dorian keyed the handset and turned away from the windscreen.

"This is One-Three Chicago, we have contacts on radar bearing two-eight-four. Looks like they are on an intercept course. Can you confirm? Over."

"This is Oh-Nine Akigumo, roger. Can confirm, we have the same contacts on scope, over." Dorian nodded to himself. Yamatoru must have been taking a look at the radar when he first hailed.

"Captain, observation teams have a visual." Pond spoke up before Dorian could respond to Yamatoru. Turning to the communications officer, Captain Reese gestured for him to go ahead. "At least eight surface contacts with black hulls and superstructure. Orange-red running lights and angular silhouettes match known Siren warship profiles."

"That's good enough for me, Mister Pond," said Dorian. Then he keyed his handset again. "This is One-Three Chicago, our wing observers have identified contacts as Siren warships. Make ready for surface combat and await further orders. If fired upon, take evasive action and return fire, over."

"This is Oh-Nine Akigumo, roger. Calling General Quarters. Out."

"Mister Pond, bring us up to General Quarters," said Dorian. He pulled some extra cord slack for the handset and approached the navigation station to study the tactical map. A new cluster of red markers blinked at him from the edge of the grid. No doubt about it now, the contacts moved in formation on a trajectory that would take them across Element Bravo's path.

Flashing lights began to strobe throughout the _13-Chicago_ as klaxons came alive and blared their warning to the crew. Like ants inside a threatened colony, the crew scrambled across the deck and through the narrow corridors. Those off-duty prepared for action, and those unlucky enough to have been asleep startled back to the waking world with adrenaline coursing through their veins.

"This is not a drill, this is not a drill," Pond's deep voice boomed over the ship's intercom. "General Quarters, General Quarters. All hands man your battle stations. Hostile surface contact imminent." When Pond finished the call for General Quarters, Dorian brought the handset to his mouth but hesitated before keying the PTT button..

"Mister Pond, get us back on channel for Main Element, would you?" Dorian, having forgotten to change the band after hailing the _09-Akigumo_, turned to his communication officer for assistance. It took but a moment for Pond to get them back on the right band, and Dorian offered a nod of thanks before hitting the PTT. "Non-Prod Takao, Takao, Takao, this is One-Three Chicago, over."

"One-Three Chicago, this is Takao, over." The cruiser woman must have noticed something off in Dorian's voice as her reply lacked the usual aura of frustration.

"This is One-Three Chicago, we have hostile Siren warships on an intercept course for Element Bravo. We count at least eight surface vessels. Navigation will pass on the coordinates in just a second, over." Captain Reese released the button and looked to one of the information officers. "Get our tactical data over to Main Element."

"This is Takao, roger that. One-Three Chicago, can Element Bravo regroup with Main Element before the Sirens enter engagement range? Over." Dorian glanced at the map and eyed the distance the Siren ships had covered since they first appeared on scope.

"This is One-Three Chicago, negative. They're closing fast and will overtake us if we cut course and throttle-up towards you. I would rather not be caught astern." It made little sense to expose their backs to ships fast enough to catch them. No, Dorian wanted to bring as much of his firepower to bear as possible if they could not dodge the fight.

"This is Takao, understood." A short pause. "Main Element is moving in to reinforce you, and Element Alpha will fold in around the flank as fast as possible. Hold out as long as you can, Element Bravo. Minimize engagement with the Siren forces. Over." Dorian signed and shook his head. For as often as he lied to Takao, he didn't _like_ to.

"This is One-Three Chicago, roger that. Over and out," said Captain Reese. Slinging the handset back into its cradle, he turned towards the tactical map and sighed again.

"Mister Pond, get an open channel with the Oh-Nine Akigumo and set output to the overhead," Reese instructed, gaze still fixed on the tactical map and the smattering of red blips encroaching on them. He nodded to himself, seeming to come to a conclusion. " Miss Innovich, bring the forward guns around, bearing two-nine-nine," Reese said, turning away from the tactical map to look out the forward windscreen.

"Sir?" Innovich looked up from her console. Her brows knit together as she wondered whether or not she heard the Captain correctly. Reese turned his head to regard her with a wolfish grin.

"Our orders are to minimize engagement with the enemy," he said, mischief flashing in his eyes. "Given the speed of Siren ships and their capabilities, I would say that the quickest way to end any hostilities would be to strike first. Wouldn't you say, Miss Innovich?"

After a brief moment of stunned silence, Innovich grinned back and nodded. Come hell or high water, the gunnery liaison officer would die happy if she could go down cannons blazing.

"Aye, captain," she said, setting her fingers to work on the console. "Bringing forward guns around to two-nine-nine."

"Load the batteries with smoke shells," said Reese. He slid a hand into the pocket of his shirt and retrieved a pair of dark aviator sunglasses. With a flick of his wrist the arms snapped open. Reese slid them onto his face. "Set range at ten klicks." Leaning over, the captain pressed the broadcast button on the comms speaker. "Oh-Nine Akigumo, Oh-Nine Akigumo, Oh-Nine Akigumo, this is One-Three Chicago. On my mark break formation and open with the "haze and harvest" maneuver. Cover going out in just a minute. Over."

"This is Oh-Nine Akigumo, roger that." The pause before Yamatoru's response, while short, did not escape Reese's notice. Unfailingly quick and decisive, the Sakura officer's delay betrayed his uncertainty in Reese's plan.

"Smoke shells loaded, captain," Innovich reported. The captain approached the forward windscreen and set his hands on his hips, a statuesque picture of confidence.

"Fire!"

The ship trembled as the forward cannons roared and belched thick gouts of fiery smoke. Ten kilometers away the shells struck the surface of the ocean and exploded into a thick haze of artificial smoke. The dense screen spread until it obscured the Siren ships from view, but Reese knew it wouldn't be enough.

"Reload smoke shells," the captain ordered. "Adjust targeting solution. New bearing: three-zero-five. Set range at nine-and-a-half klicks. Fire when ready!"

"Aye, sir!" Innovitch's brow creased with concentration as she manipulated the controls of her station. She relayed orders through her headset to the gunnery crews stationed in each battery as she worked. The readout stations in each respective battery reported the telemetry fed to their respective crews by Innovitch's own console.

A second tremor ran down the One-Three Chicago's length, the forward batteries hurling another volley of smoke canister shells downrange. Another cluster of smoky clouds sprung up from the ocean surface like mushroom caps and spread out to meet the edge of the first crop of smoke. A veil of obfuscation spread along the horizon from where the Siren fleet sailed to the point where they would be within interception range of the One-Three Chicago. Or rather, where they _would_ have been within interception range if Reese gave the order to cut course and make a run for Main Element.

"Mister Anand," Dorian said, not turning away from the windscreen. "Put our nose on a perpendicular course with the Siren's projected path. Bring us up to flank Speed."

"Aye, captain," said the grim-faced helmsman. While several of the other bridge crew exchanged anxious glances, Anand's bushy-browed scowl didn't so much as twitch. The throttle chimed as the helmsman's hand guided it from standard into full speed, and then again as it passed from full into flank.

"Load main and secondary batteries with HE. Bring the main battery and port-side secondary battery around bearing two-seven-zero."

"Aye, sir!"

"Once we enter the smokescreen change course two points broad on the starboard bow and prepare to drop the throttle to one-third on my mark."

"Understood captain."

Reese peered into the smoke for any signs that the Siren vessels changed course. He made a substantial gamble with the smokescreen. The cannisters contained a specialized mixture of red phosphorus, aluminum-coated glass fibres, and graphite which not only obscured line of sight but blinded infrared and electromagnetic detection systems. A sleeve of chaff fibres surrounding the core canister dispersed like confetti upon initial detonation. The chaff scattered radar signals and rendered everything behind the screen invisible to such modes of detection. It worked both ways, however, blinding the _13-Chicago_ to the Siren's movements.

Despite their advanced technology, the mass-produced Siren vessels didn't operate with a high level of tactical intelligence. Instead, they relied on raw firepower and superior numbers to achieve victory. Dorian bet that the Siren forces would act based on the last known course of Element Bravo. Taking advantage of lacking agency, Captain Reese intended to seize the initiative and balance the scales.

_13-Chicago_'s bow slid into the smoke, the gloom swallowing the vessel inch by inch. Anand adjusted the ship's course as they entered the smokescreen just as Reese ordered. Dorian squinted in a futile attempt to see into the soupy mix but could see no farther than the deck directly below the bridge. He clenched his fingers which dug painfully into his hips, knuckles going white.

The murk started to thin, and Reese watched as vague shapes begin to form just beyond the edge of the smokescreen. A fresh wave of adrenaline spiked his blood. Its heat coursed through him like wildfire fanned by the wind. His heart beat hard inside his chest, the flood of oxygen-rich blood to his brain caused him to feel as if he were floating outside of himself. Dorian looked down from the ceiling of the bridge, and for a moment a sort of omnipotence overcame him.

Sweat glistened on Innovich's brow. Pond's foot drummed a rapid _tap-tap-tap_ on the deck as he rocked his heel up and down. Tendons like pulley cables stood out in Anand's hands as he clutched the helm. Kopfer, wide-eyed with fear and anticipation, kept his gaze locked on the static-washed radar screen. A manic grin stretched across Dorian's own face, a too-wide cheshire crescent of gleaming white teeth. In the span separating one heartbeat from the next, Dorian snapped back into his body.

"Drop throttle to one-thrid," ordered Reese. "Bring us around hard to starboard!"

"One-third throttle, hard starboard. Aye, captain!" Anand cranked the wheel hard to the right, hand-over-hand, until it would go no further. Reese felt the shifting speed and course in his stomach, and he needed to lean away from the tilt of the ship to keep his footing. He adjusted to the shifting deck beneath him without thinking, an automatic response developed by all veteran sailors.

Coming out the far side of the screen, Dorian felt a victorious surge of self-satisfaction; the Siren ships maintained the course for intercept they adopted before the smoke. With their guns trained to the wrong bearing, the Siren fleet's exposed flanks faced the unmitigated might of the _13-Chicago_'s full broadside barrage. The Eagle Union heavy cruiser presented a three-quarter profile to the enemy vessels, it's guns already trained to the proper bearing.

"Target the enemy fire control centers," instructed the captain. "One turret from the main battery per closest vessel, and divide secondary battery fire between two closest ships!" Having rather limited variety in their vessels, in most cases one class per type, the existing profiles contained a lot of information useful for targeting.

"Guns ready, captain!" Innovich reported, her hands a blur flying over her console.

"Fire!"

A series of thundering booms rattled the _13-Chicago_ as it unleashed a mighty fusillade. Thick plumes of smoke and fire rolled from each barrel as the cannons hurled forth their payloads.

The Siren destroyer nearest the _13-Chicago_ took two shells from 8" guns to its superstructure, the third going wide and splashing into the sea beyond. The explosion from the first shell removed the topmost deck from the destroyer's command tower, and the second shell blasted a gaping hole dead center of the superstructure. An unnatural orange-red glow poured out of the hole and cast long shafts of jagged light through the ragged twists of fractured armor. A handful of smaller impacts from the 5" guns rippled across the side of the destroyer, one of which struck the forward turret of its main battery. The 5" HE shell found the turret's ammo cache which cooked off the other shells. The turret peeled open from the top down blooming like the petals of a blackened flower.

All three shells from the _13-Chicago_'s second main battery turret struck the second Siren destroyer amidships. One, or perhaps all, of the rounds found something volatile at the heart of the vessel. An explosion of blinding intensity tore the destroyer asunder, bow and aft halves of the ship pushed in opposite directions by the shockwave before slipping swiftly beneath the waves.

The last of the main battery's turrets managed only to land a single shell on the Siren cruiser nearest the _13-Chicago_. The round impacted the upper hull just beneath the superstructure where the armor proved to be toughest. The second and third shells went wide on either side of the vessel's superstructure. More than a few of the secondary battery's shells landed on-target, but the cruiser's heavy armor shrugged off most of the punishment it endured.

Captain Reese's grin never faltered, and several of his bridge crew exchanged worried glances with one another. Had their captain lost his mind? Did he have a death wish? Just who did the Commander put in charge here? Some sort of madman?

These poorly concealed thoughts were not lost on Dorian. They didn't worry him, though he didn't feel compelled to reassure them, either. '_Let my actions and their results do the talking for me,'_ he thought to himself. Besides, would anything he said assuage their concerns?

"Helm, hold course," Reese ordered. "Reload all batteries and bring the aft main battery around bearing one-eight-zero."

"_One_-eight-zero, sir?" Innovich looked up at him from her console, not sure if she heard correctly.

"Yes, Miss Innovich, one-eight-zero," said Reese, glancing back at her over his shoulder. She looked at him for a moment, lips pressed into a thin line, and Reese could see her wrestling with the desire to question his order. "I am well aware of the cruiser and our heading, Miss Innovich. What comes next only works if everyone follows my orders without thinking too hard about them first," he said, sparing Innovich the need to stick her neck out.

"Aye, sir," said Innovich looking no less uncertain. "Aft main battery to one-eight-zero."

The _09-Akigumo_ emerged from the smokescreen behind the _13-Chicago_, twin barrels of its forward turret flashing. The Sakura destroyer cut course hard to starboard and rammed its throttle up to flank speed. With the _13-Chicago_ at one-third speed, the _09-Akigumo_ would eat up the sea between them in no time.

"Covering fire for the Oh-Nine Akigumo," said Reese. "Target the closest undamaged destroyer with the forward main battery, secondary battery target the damaged destroyer. Concentrate fire on the hole we already made. Fire when ready!" To the bridge crew it must have seemed like the captain was ignoring the Siren cruiser. They were, in fact, correct-Reese _was_ ignoring the cruiser. Not because it didn't concern him, but because he knew it wouldn't concern him much longer.

"Aye, captain!" To her credit, Innovich kept her reservations in check and carried out her orders without hesitation.

Before the _13-Chicago_ could fire it's second volley, a series of detonations rippled across the Siren cruiser's hull just beneath the waterline-the torpedoes launched by the _09-Akigumo_ from within the smokescreen finding their mark. The gouts of seawater sent up by the blasts disappeared into clouds of smoke and fire as secondary explosions crept up the sides of the black vessel. The cruiser took on a severe starboard list almost immediately, the larger ship's guns no longer able to achieve the proper elevation to fire on Element Bravo.

"Comms, confirm torpedo impact for Oh-Nine Akigumo and have them set up for round two," said Reese. Bright orange flames raged across the ocean surface belching thick columns of oily black smoke high into the sky. It acted as a sort of secondary smoke screen for Element Bravo, the heat of the fire and obfuscating smoke effectively blocking both IR sensors and line of sight for the Siren vessels beyond.

"Oh-Nine Akigumo, this is One-Three Chicago. Good hit!" Pond's voice crackled over the speakers as he broadcast to Yamatoru's ship. "Set up for a second pass."

The _09-Akigumo_ overtook the _13-Chicago_, passing along the starboard side until the larger ship obstructed the _09-Akigumo_ from the Siren's view. Once again the _13-Chicago_'s guns loosed peals of thunder, the forward main battery and port-facing secondary battery firing on their designated targets.

A crimson strobe lit the damaged Siren destroyer's forward turret, and a glowing streak of red light arced across the sky. The Siren shell struck the _13-Chicago_ in the upper hull towards the ship's stern where it puckered the armor but failed to punch through. It proved to be the only shot that the destroyer would fire. Moments after the shot struck the _13-Chicago_, the concentrated fire from the heavy cruiser's secondary battery funneled into the gaping wound on the destroyer's squat superstructure. Explosions tore from both sides of the hull, several below the waterline. The orange-red running lights running along the length of the vessel flickered and faded as it lost power.

All six shells from the _13-Chicago_'s forward main battery impacted the starboard side of another Siren destroyer. The zigzag puncture pattern dotted the hull and deck like a constellation of stars before detonation reduced the vessel to a formless hunk of molten slag. A gaping maw of jagged metal teeth twisted skyward where the deck had once been, the floating inferno bobbed along aimlessly across the calm ocean surface.

On the _13-Chicago_'s far side, the _09-Akigumo_ veered back into the smokescreen and disappeared from view. With Yamatoru's ship clear of their starboard side, Dorian gave the order to change course and push the throttle to full. As the Eagle Union heavy cruiser slid back into the smoke, the captain turned to watch the smoldering wrecks. Half of the Siren fleet burned or sank from the opening move of Reese's plan, and while it didn't quite even the odds it was a significant improvement.

A dozen streaks of menacing red light pierced the wall of black smoke rising from the destroyed Siren vessels. Fresh adrenaline spiked Dorian's blood, and his perception of the shells arcing towards the _13-Chicago_ slowed.

"Evasive maneuvers, hard to port!" Dorian ordered, excitement creeping into his voice. "Throttle to half speed!" Anand cranked the wheel hard to the left and those aboard the _13-Chicago_ fought against the change of direction to maintain their footing. Dorian moved his hands from his hips to clutch the rail, bending down to get a better angle on the rapidly approaching crimson tracers.

Water sprayed up in columns along the far side of the _13-Chicago_, the shells which caused them having overshot the heavy cruiser. Then, the vessel quaked as two distinct blasts erupted aft of the rear superstructure. A pair of Siren shells punched through the deck at the base of the aftmost 5" gun turret.

"Damage report," Reese ordered, turning back towards his bridge crew for the first time. With the exception of Pond, who had seen combat in a warship before, most of the bridge crew appeared shaken by the impact of enemy fire.

"Shells detonated in the crew mess," responded one of the junior bridge officers. "Damage is minimal and the affected compartments were unoccupied. DC teams are moving in to suppress the fires."

"Fan room and ammunition elevator to the aft secondary battery have lost power," another junior officer reported.

"Evacuate the affected turret until the fires are under control," said Reese, turning to examine the map display. "Have the turret crew carry up some shells from the store rooms to restock the turret's stores."

The course correction taken to avoid the brunt of the Siren salvo kept the _13-Chicago_ from taking cover in the smoke. Unable to set the _09-Akigumo_ up for a second pass, the Sakura destroyer would be in grave danger when they emerged from cover. Without the torpedo support from the _09-Akigumo_, however, Reese would end up on the wrong side of a four-on-one firefight. Unless… Reese moved away from the windscreen and snatched the handset from the captain's seat.

"Oh-Nine Akigumo, this is One-Three Chicago," Reese said into the handset once he keyed the PTT. "The maneuver has been interrupted by enemy fire. Change heading and follow the One-Three Chicago single file. I have a new plan." The captain regarded his helmsman and that wicked grin tugged at his lips again. Fire from the wrecked Siren ships and oil burning atop the ocean surface reflected in the mirrored lenses of his sunglasses like hellish embers. "Mister Anand," he said, "bring us around hard to port. Head for the foundered Siren vessels."

*;*;*

Takao pushed the limits of her patience leading Main Element toward Element Bravo's last known location. She could sail much faster than any production vessel could hope to, but it would be irresponsible of her to leave the production vessels behind in order to reach Bravo first. A good leader did not give into their emotions and individual desires. They made every decision based on cold calculations and logical outcomes.

Speaking of good leaders, why did it have to be _Reese's_ element that made contact with Siren forces? She half expected to find Element Bravo burning and on the way to the ocean floor by the time Main Element arrived. No doubt that overstuffed excuse for a captain got his crew and Yamatoru's in over their heads. The capacity for listening to his superiors and following orders simply seemed to be missing from Reese's DNA.

In the distance, Takao spotted black smoke coiling toward the sky in thick plumes. The Sakura cruiser felt her pulse quicken, and her stomach started doing flips. Reese got them caught, she _knew_ it! Yamatoru should have been her executive officer. Why didn't the Commander listen to her? Takao clenched her jaw and balled her hands into fists. If Reese got Yamatoru killed, she swore on her honor to see him court martialed.

Restraining herself from rushing on ahead, Takao led Main Element toward the distant smoke. She spotted the flash of cannons and heard their thunderous reports as she drew closer; at the very least it seemed that Bravo was still afloat and fighting.

Once close enough to feel comfortable leaving the production fleet in a support position, Takao sped off toward the warring ships. Though difficult to see through the thick smog, it soon became apparent to her that the burning vessels were not the _13-Chicago _or _09-Akigumo_, but Siren ships. She counted the remains of three shiren ships, maybe as many as four! Takao opened her throttle all the way up and pushed in closer. From the sound of all the cannon fire, the battle continued somewhere through the smoke.

Takao squinted against the sting of burning oil smoke as she cut through the haze. There! She spotted the _13-Chicago_ passing between the narrow gap between two ruined Siren hulks at full throttle. The _09-Akigumo_ followed close behind, hiding in the smoke and behind the heavy cruiser's larger profile. Reese, that crazy fool! What did he think he was doing with such a reckless maneuver?

Once clear of the wrecked Siren ships, the 09-Akigumo launched torpedoes from both racks which passed along either side of the _13-Chicago_ on their way towards their targets. Takao didn't doubt such an irresponsible order came from Reese. If the two ships' courses were not perfectly aligned, or if the _13-Chicago_ turned too early, the torpedoes could easily hit the heavy cruiser instead.

Somehow the torpedoes passed by the _13-Chicago_ without incident. As soons as the torpedoes passed beyond the tip of the cruiser's bow, the _13-Chicago_ and _09-Akigumo_ dropped throttle and cut course hard to starboard. The maneuver, performed in perfect concert, brought the _09-Akigumo_ up along the _13-Chicago'_s starboard side where it took cover from the Siren return salvo.

Vicious red tracers stitched the air as shells rained down around the two Coalition vessels. Two rounds exploded on the outer hull of the _13-Chicago_'s port side, failing to punch through the armor but rocking the ship with their detonation. A third, larger round punched through the upper hull of the _13-Chicago_'s bow and detonated. Takao bit her lower lip and tried to recall the layout of an Eagle Union _Baltimore_-class production heavy cruiser. She felt fairly sure that most of the foremost compartments were storage for paint, canvas, and spare parts-non-critical compartments that should be empty with all hands to battlestations.

The _13-Chicago_'s guns, already trained toward the Siren aggressors, spat their fury back at the enemy. One of the remaining three Siren destroyers erupted in flames, torn to jagged pieces by the heavy cruiser's cannons. The second destroyer took several shells to the aft section. Something must have happened to the rudder, because it veered suddenly. A few moments later, several of the _09-Akigumo_'s torpedoes struck the doomed vessel and fractured it into several sections. By chance, the destroyer's steering malfunction saved the Siren cruiser from the torpedoes that had been intended for it. With the largest enemy vessel still in play the _13-Chicago_ would be subject to at least one barrage before it could fire again.

Takao waited no longer; she sprang forward, gliding across the ocean surface like a speed skater, and raised her riggings into a combat position. Her cannons roared, and the Siren cruiser bucked from the force of impact as her concentrated fire punched through the hull and forward superstructure. Secondary explosions blew out sections of deck and hull, the metal swelling and popping like soap bubbles. The Sakura cruiser swept around the far side of the ship and laid a second barrage into the hull along the waterline. A string of violent explosions ripped the Siren cruiser to pieces, much of the vessel forced beneath the waves before the smoke cleared.

A burst of red flashed in Takao's peripheral vision, and she veered to the side. A lone shell from the last remaining Siren destroyer's forward gun splashed down in the water where Takao had been a moment before. She turned her guns on the enemy ship, golden eyes ablaze with indignation. Takao's cannons blazed, the shockwave from the simultaneous firing of all her guns displacing the water round her in an impressive spray.

The front half of the Siren destroyer vanished in a dazzling flash of crimson and white. Metal rained from the sky around the devastated hulk as bits of shrapnel reached the apex of their flight and fell back to earth. Takao watched, grim-faced, as the ocean swallowed up what remained of the ship.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath in through her nose. The acrid smell of gunpowder and burnt oil filled her lungs and left a bitter taste at the back of her throat. Fire crackled in her ears, the sound sharp and staccato over the sound of the gentle sea. Yet in spite of these things, Takao felt a stillness folding in around her. It swaddled her like a quilt, heavy and certain.

'_This_,' Takao thought to herself. '_This is the essence of battle. In the aftermath of suffering and struggle, peace. For a moment, at least.'_

The cruiser girl took in the stillness of post-battle for one last moment. Then, she keyed her comms and let the tranquility slip away.

"One-Three Chicago, One-Three Chicago, One-Three Chicago, this is Takao, over."

"Takao, this is One-Three Chicago, over."

Takao's dark brows knit together, frustration pressing her lips into a thin line. The voice on the radio was not Reese's. Likely it was the _13-Chicago_'s communications officer. A flash of anger, the likes of which Takao only ever felt when dealing with Dorian Reese, sent a wave of heat to her cheeks. What, couldn't he bring himself to talk to her himself after disobeying her orders? Didn't she _tell_ him to minimize engagement with the Sirens? Nevermind that Element Bravo managed to sink most of the enemy vessels alone, and nevermind that they didn't seem to suffer any critical damage to their ships!

"One-Three Chicago, this is Takao. Where is your Captain?" The Sakura cruiser asked, voice sharp with contempt. It might not have been fair to the _13-Chicago_'s comms officer, but Reese had some sort of shortcut around the discipline and restraint Takao so prided herself on straight to her last nerve.

"Takao, this is One-Three Chicago. Sorry, ma'am, the Captain is tending to an injured crewman," said the comms officer. "He just finished. Please hold, ma'am." The radio went silent just long enough for Takao to feel some of her hot anger shift into hot embarrassment instead. That, in turn, just made her more angry. Why should she feel embarrassed about _anything_ concerning Reese? Takao assured herself that she had every reason to be angry with the man and his blatant disregard for orders.

"Tako, this is One-Three Chicago Captain Reese, over."

"One-Three Chicago, this is Takao," she said without bothering to hide her impatience. "Element Bravo is to regroup with Main Element immediately. We're returning to port right away. You, _Captain_, are to report to the administration building as soon as we dock for debrief. Have your after action report prepared by the time we get there, over." It was unfair of her to demand he have his report ready for her by the time they made port, but she felt like being petty-another trait only brought about by Reese, and that made her angry, too.

"Takao, this is One-Three Chicago. Understood, over."

Takao could feel him smiling- could hear it in his voice. That arrogant, honorless, irresponsible... irresponsible… jerk! Ugh! His flagrant disregard for her authority made her too mad to even think clearly! When the Task Unit made it back to port, she would give Reese the furious dressing down he deserved.


	6. Weighed, Measured, and Found Wanting

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_Unbalanced, the scale_

_Unimpressive, the measure_

_Unprepared, the heart_

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**Chapter 6:** Weighed, Measured, and Found Wanting

Contention surrounding the Global Postwar Coalition 1st Battalion, 1st Self-Defense Marines started well before its official formation. As a unit derived from an international cooperation, most of the participants sought to bring their own organizational structures in as the primary framework. For example, the Eagle Union wanted the GPC's lone infantry unit to be a full division in size with five fully serviceable infantry regiments. However, Iris Libre, the Vichya Dominion, and the Sardegna Empire suffered substantial losses in manpower during the World War and had yet to recover. They did not favor such a large infantry unit as they could not reliably maintain equal shares, and allowing the Eagle Union (or any other power for that matter) to make up the difference threatened to upset the balance of influence within the GPC. In the end, the GPC managed to compromise on a single regiment for use by the Coalition's Joint Fleet. Thus, the 1st Self-Defense Marines were born.

Initially composed of an HQ logistics battalion and three combat-focused battalions, the GPC Admiralty Board later repurposed the 1st Battalion as an auxiliary battalion after determining that the Joint Fleet's logistics resources rendered a logistics-focused battalion redundant. For several years the 1st Battalion, 1st Self-Defense Marines remained an auxiliary unit used mostly for training recruits and light assignments.

Things changed once again when the Joint Fleet's commander reactivated the 1st Battalion as a proper combat unit. The attacks on New York City and the Canal Fortress in Central America demonstrated the need for strong coastal defense. Now, more than ever, the Joint Fleet needed capable soldiers to hold down the fort while the fleets fought for supremacy at sea.

A strategy focused on defense wouldn't stop the Sirens, though, and the Commander knew it. If humanity wanted to survive they would need to strike back at the invaders. With the help of the newly reactivated 1st Battalion, 1st Self-Defense marines, he planned to do just that.

Knowing full well that the Admiralty Board would never approve of repurposing the entire battalion, the Commander limited his appropriation to the battalion's 1st Company. (In an Eagle Union unit structure it would have been Company A. For the sake of those nations with non-latin alphabets the GPC opted to use number designators for all official GPC unit organizations.) Designated the "1st Special Services Company", the unit would report directly to the Commander and participate in critical operations for the Joint Fleet.

The Commander stood at his office window sipping a cup of bitter coffee and contemplating his three month struggle to convince the Admiralty Board to approve the Special Services budget. Captain Rodes hadn't been shy in handing over a shopping list of weapons and equipment he wanted for his new unit. The GCP admirals' eyes nearly popped out of their heads when they read the expense report's bottom line. They scrutinized the necessity and purpose of every item line by line. The board members spent hours at a time on individual items, the Commander defending his chosen officer's need for each procurement with tireless tenacity. In the end, Rodes got everything he asked for right on down to the brand of toothpaste he favored.

Chuckling to himself, the Commander shook his head and took another sip from his mug. What could he say? He offered the captain freedom to ask for what he needed, and Rodes took the Commander at his word. The Commander liked that, and not just because it showed spine. It showed confidence in knowing what would get the job done. Furthermore, it told the Commander that Rodes wanted the best for his troops. No doubt he expected the best _from_ them in return. Putting up with all the Board's squawking would be well worth it If the Commander's assessment of Rodes hit the mark.

"Good morning, Commander." The Commander turned around at the sound of Matchless's voice. She stood in the doorway with a serving tray in her hands while trying her best to close the door behind her with one foot. "I hope the coffee was okay!"

Rounding his desk, the Commander relieved Matchless of her tray before the laws of physics brought about disaster. She offered him a small, embarrassed smile before closing the door behind her. The Commander returned to his desk and set the tray down before taking a seat.

"The coffee is good," he said, a smile warming his face. "Thank you, Matchless." In truth, the Commander abhorred black coffee. He much preferred to temper the bitter beverage with a little sugar and a generous splash of cream, but he chose to spare Matchless's feelings on the matter. She had been so proud the first time she bought gourmet coffee from a specialty shop as a surprise for him. He didn't have the heart to tell her that the only thing worse than black coffee was _dark roast _black coffee. Plucking his mug from the cork coaster protecting the fine wood of his desk, the Commander took another sip of his Grand Tropics extra dark roast coffee and suppressed a shudder.

A split sesame seed bagel occupied a small plate on the tray Matchless brought in with her, a thick spread of cream cheese applied to each half. A freshly peeled orange and a small raspberry danish pastry sat on a separate dish from the bagel. On the side of the tray opposite the food, a manilla file folder lay fat and brimming with paper. It contained the morning reports, no doubt.

Tearing the danish pastry in half, the Commander set one half back onto the plate which he then held out to Matchless. She took it with a soft word of gratitude and burning cheeks. The Commander popped the other half of the pastry into his mouth in a single bite.

"So, how is Captain Rodes doing with First Company?" The Commander asked once he finished making the danish disappear.

"Captain Rodes has First Company lined up for their morning drills right now," said Matchless, pausing to answer with the pastry halfway to her mouth.

The Commander hummed a note of acknowledgement and picked one of the bagel halves off of his plate. "Let's see if Captain Rodes can teach his pups to run with the wolves," he said.

*;*;*

Rodes stood before his assembled troops. The soldiers formed five platoons of twenty each; one hundred souls under his command altogether. He faced them with his arms crossed, his expression the very essence of gruff disapproval. Steely silver-gray eyes ran up and down the ranks of soldiers like a craftsman judging the subpar work of another. Hood stood off to the side with Tirpitz wondering what Rodes saw that displeased him so completely.

"They lack unity," said Tirpitz, her tone flat. The two women stood far enough off from the group that soft conversation wouldn't carry to Rodes or his troops. Hood glanced over at Tirpitz, surprised by her speaking up out of the blue.

"Pardon?" Hood asked, not understanding Tirpitz's meaning.

"You were watching Captain Rodes with a confused expression," Tirpitz said, looking over at Hood for the briefest of moments before returning her attention to the soldiers. "I guessed that you were wondering why he disapproves of them. I believe it is because they lack unity."

"Oh my," said Hood, frowning a little. "Was I so obvious?" A lady, especially a lady in such high standing within Her Majesty's service, should never be so impolite as to gawk. Tirptz gestured in a way that indicated she could not say for sure in one way or the other. After a long pause, Hood decided to see if she might encourage the Iron Blood battleship to elaborate a little more. "What makes you say that they lack unity?"

Tirpitz remained silent for a long moment. As the silence went on, Hood started to wonder if the battleship didn't want to answer her. Surely Tirpitz heard the question, right? Just as the battlecruiser woman considered giving it up as a lost cause, the Iron Blood spoke.

"They are all exceptional soldiers in their own right," she said, speaking in a slow and contemplative tone. Each word carried a small hesitation as if Tirpitz wasn't sure she trusted her own analysis. "In the past, they stood apart from the others and relied only on themselves. This is acceptable when the rest of your unit must rely on one another to function. But If you bring all those outstanding individuals together, they remain individuals. They stand alone, together."

At first, Hood did not absorb the words. Instead they clung to her like morning dew on blades of grass, waiting for the earth to wake and drink them in. The Royal Navy battlecruiser didn't think she ever heard Tirpitz say so much at one time. Her wonderment passed, and Hood chewed on the other woman's take. Before she could decide whether or not she agreed with Tirpitz's assessment, Captain Rodes's booming voice rolled across the training field like a freight train.

"Let me be very clear," said Rodes, his tone as grim as his eyes. "I am completely disappointed with the results of your work so far." He paused to let that sink in. To their credit, none of the soldiers shifted or shuffled. Some of them went taut around the jaws and stiff in the shoulders, but nothing more than that. "Each of you is an exemplary soldier. You are warriors down to the marrow of your bones, but that does _not_ make you special. It certainly doesn't make you special _here_. None of you are used to working as a team, and it's clear that some of you think you deserve to be here more than others."

Isn't that what Tirpitz observed just a moment ago? Hood felt a flush threaten her cheeks. Embarrassment flooded her thoughts, but why? She should have been impressed or pleased that her companion proved herself so perceptive. That thought only made Hood feel ashamed as well as embarrassed. Why didn't she see it for herself?

"As it stands I would take the company on galley duty before taking this unit into combat," Rodes barked, mouth twisted into a scowl. "We are going to be fighting the most advanced and experienced enemy anyone has ever known. If you're not ready, we're _all_ dead. Understand this: I will not ask anything of anyone here that I would not be willing to do myself. That includes your training, your diet, and your assignments. I am in charge not because I am better than you, but because I've seen more combat than all of you combined, and I've done so on every continent with any claim to civilization."

Rodes paused again to study their faces, no doubt looking for signs any of them wanted to refute his claim. None of them did, though some of them did seem to be holding back their indignation.

"My responsibility to you is to make sure that when we are finished, you know everything that I do _and more_. Your responsibility to _me_ is simple: don't let me down. By the time they put me in the ground the only thing this company should lose is dead weight." The captain uncrossed his arms and they dropped back to his sides. His expression cleared some, much of the disappointed severity melting away.

"Starting today," Rodes continued, "our primary focus will be on platoon exercises. Each platoon will be scored on objective completion and overall performances. At the end of the week the Platoon with the highest score will get their pick of meal from the Officer's Mess, two bottles of good whiskey, and a night to make use of it." To Hood's amazement, this news inspired a more open reaction from the troops than the captain's scolding. All across the sea of faces eyebrows arched, eyes widened, and mouths twitched up at the corners. " On the flip side," Rodes said, "any platoon that scores lowest two weeks in a row will get mandatory sanitation duty and be limited to slug rations until they score above last."

Before Hood's assignment as a support asset to the 1st Special Services Company, she knew very little about the struggles of enlisted soldiers nor the slang assigned to them. "Slug rations," she knew now, were what the enlisted troops called the nutrient-dense mixture that Hood thought of as resembling thick oatmeal. The nickname referred both to the slimy consistency of the paste, which only worsened as it cooled, and the need to apply generous amounts of salt to compensate for its poor flavor.

"First Platoon, report to the red block training grounds," Rodes ordered, gesturing with an arm in the general direction of the red block. "Fifth Platoon, report to the blue block training grounds. You will be briefed by a logistics officer once you arrive. Second Platoon, you're headed to the firing range. Third Platoon, you're doing PT. Fourth Platoon, equipment maintenance and readiness drills. You have your orders, now get moving!"

"Sir, yes sir!" The platoon chorused, and the lieutenants in charge of each platoon began directing their troops. Rodes did not wait to watch them go. He turned toward the red block training grounds and started off, paused, then looked back towards Hood and Tirpitz. With a wave of his hand, Rodes gestured for the two ship girls to follow him.

*;*;*

Rodes led Hood and Tirpitz into the observation room for the red block training grounds. Situated atop a stilted platform, the small structure boasted an excellent view of the field below. A floor-to-ceiling window stretched from corner to corner across the wall facing the field. Banks of video monitors occupied the adjacent walls on either side. A tactical map occupied the middle of the room, standing upright like a pane of opaque glass from the ceiling to where it met the operator's console.

"I would like you to watch the exercises from here," said Rodes, turning to face the women. Hood thought that his resting face looked rather severe on its own. If meeting him for the first time, the Royal Navy battlecruiser might have suspected he disliked her company. When she and Tirpitz first went to collect Captain Rodes, his neutral disposition didn't seem so serious. Since accepting the Joint Fleet's commission, however, he appeared nothing _but_ serious. In an almost paradoxical way, Rodes also seemed more at ease than he had when they met.

"Of course, Captain Rodes," said Hood pleasantly.

"As per the Commander's orders we are at your disposal, Captain," said Tirpitz.

A fleeting shadow flickered across the captain's face at Tirpitz's response, his frown deepening at the corners. At first, Hood thought that the momentary displeasure stemmed from a dislike of the Commander, but that made little sense. The Commander offered Rodes the position and an opportunity to resign without repercussion should he feel unwilling or unable to perform his duties for any reason. Given the captain's usual tendency to speak his mind, the Royal Navy battlecruiser doubted he would keep quiet about grievances. What could have agitated him?

"The reason is twofold," Rodes continued, looking at each woman in turn. "First, I appreciate feedback on the toops' performance. I can't be everywhere at once, so you'll see things I don't. I want to know where they're doing well and where they're weak. Second, I want you to understand what you'll be working with. The skills and cohesion learned here will be applied in the field. When supporting infantry from the sea, it's useful to have a sense of the battlefield-can see it in your head."

Hood nodded. That made sense, of course. Providing fire support to distant forces could be considered imprecise at best. Familiarity with the forces a ship is supporting would allow for improved effectiveness. Well, it would in theory, anyway.

"We will pay close attention to every detail," said Hood, donning a serene smile of royal confidence. "This is our assignment, and as such it shall see no less than the full breadth of our effort." Tirptiz's eyes flicked toward her counterpart, then back to Rodes.

"Understood," said Tirpiz simply.

Rodes nodded, the veteran seemingly mollified by their acquiescence. Still, Hood wondered what agitated him in the first place. With the exception of his displeasure with the state of the 1st SpecSvc Company, Captain Rodes appeared fine until Tirpitz mentioned the Commander. Hood found difficulty in reconciling the easiest explanation with what she knew about him. There just seemed to be no apparent reason for Rodes to dislike the Commander.

The door to the observation center swung open behind them, and a team of technicians filed into the room. They stopped to salute Captain Rodes, but he returned their salutes with a distracted salute of his own and instructed them to carry on. All the while his steel gray gaze lingered on Tirpitz, scrutinizing, burrowing, as if trying to drill a well into her thoughts.

"Alright, good," Rodes said after a long pause. He turned to watch the technicians settle in at their stations. Fingers snapped at switches and danced across keyboards. Monitors flickered to life and drives spooled up with a steady hum. Chairs creaked, headsets headbands clicked, and the low murmur of comms checks passed through the room like a draft.

Rodes unclipped the handheld radio from his belt and held it out to Hood. She reached out and took it from him, more on polite instinct than anything, and looked down at the device.

"Call me on the radio if anything comes up," said Rodes. "I'm going to head down and keep an eye on the other training ground." He lifted a hand and pointed one finger at the radio's display. Hood couldn't help but notice the thick scars across his knuckles and the callouses built up on the pad of his extended digit. It was the strong, indelicate hand of a survivor. "That's First Company's officer channel, so you shouldn't have to mess with the thing to get a hold of me."

The striking contrast between the captain's gnarled hand and her own delicate features caused a momentary lapse into reverie. Scars were the true reward of survival, weren't they? A hardening of the flesh and of the heart-the body defending itself against future injury. How much could he still feel beneath all that hard won armour? How would that hand feel against the unmarked skin of her own? More a morbid curiosity than an amorous one. Hood realized with a start that she had been treating Rodes as a spectacle-a curiosity in which to indulge. Shame stirred in the pit of her stomach and started to squirm.

"Of course, Captain Rodes," Hood said, looking away from the captain's rugged hand with a bit of effort.

"Radio me when they finish up here," said Rodes. If he noticed her scrutiny of his hand, or the embarrassment that followed, Hood didn't see any evidence of it. Giving the women a nod, the captain stepped back and turned on his heel toward the door. On his way, Rodes plucked a radio handset from its charging cradle atop one of the observation stations and started adjusting the settings. He shouldered through the door without stopping and disappeared from view.

Hood glanced over at Tirpitz and found her Iron Blood counterpart staring into space. While standoffish and cold in normal circumstances, Tirpitz seemed to have hardened around the edges into something downright glacial. A slight straightening of her already rigid posture drew the muscles in her shoulders taut. Hood thought that Tirpitz appeared to be willing her body to turn to stone. It seemed that she hadn't been the only one to notice Rodes's reaction.

A quiet moment passed while Hood considered bringing the topic up for conversation, but she decided against it in the end. Triptiz didn't seem the type to open up very easily. While Hood couldn't be _certain_ that the little incident bothered the Iron Blood woman, it seemed safer to avoid the topic until it had time to settle.

Around them the technicians continued setting up the exercise, coordinating with one another and the technical team on the ground. Hood found it all too easy to slip away from the background noise and into her own thoughts. The captain's flash of deep displeasure at the mention of the Commander just didn't connect with what she knew about Rodes. Well, it didn't connect with what she _thought_ she knew. Hood supposed that she might have misjudged the man based on first impressions and his impeccable service record.

The Royal Navy battlecruiser's thoughts lingered on the captain far longer than she would have felt proper if not for being distracted. In the end, Hood rendered her questions down one after the next until she came to the one she dared not examine any further: why did it bother her that Rodes might not be who she thought he was?


End file.
